


Patchwork Families (Hawkquisition: Part III)

by rannadylin



Series: Hawkquisition [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Detectives, Elves, F/M, Pregnancy, Red Lyrium, Refugees, Skyhold, The Chantry, Val Royeaux, Wedding Planning, inquisitor's wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-01 03:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4003948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rannadylin/pseuds/rannadylin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merrill's patchwork clan has grown and they return with Hawke to Skyhold just in time for the baby to be born. Meanwhile, Skyhold is abuzz with preparations for Divine Victoria's coronation and the Inquisitor's wedding - but danger lurks amidst the festivities...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wherein they follow us home, and we’ll keep them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill's patchwork clan has grown and they return with Hawke to Skyhold just in time for the baby to be born. Meanwhile, Skyhold is abuzz with preparations for Divine Victoria's coronation and the Inquisitor's wedding - but danger lurks amidst the festivities...

****  
Hawkquisition Part 3: Patchwork Families  
Chapter 1

_Wherein they follow us home, and we'll keep them_

The mabari had taken to following Varric around. In Hawke's absence, Tiberius' first priority always seemed to be finding the person  _she_  would most want him to look after. The last time, it had been obvious: she left him with her elf, who needed a lot of protecting (Tiberius thought so, anyway, though the elf would have vehemently disagreed, and did, once he was able to move on his own again). This time the elf had gone with Hawke, and her acquaintances at Skyhold were too new for the dog to know whom to favor first with his attentions. When the Inquisitor and Varric returned to Skyhold, Tiberius was relieved, in a way, to see the dwarf, because here was someone he knew Hawke would want guarded. So he did.

Varric wasn't crazy about the idea of his every step being hounded by a hound as big as himself, but he accepted his new companion when he realized that Hawke would need someone to look after her dog until she got back home. (Home? Skyhold? When had he started thinking of it that way? Maybe the day Hawke had turned up here again, come to think of it.) Still, it was awkward. He felt constantly watched, which was saying something considering the close tabs the Merchants' Guild tried to keep on him. It was also frustrating, guessing at what the mabari was trying to communicate to him when, one day, Tiberius perked up his ears, stared out into space, and then started barking loudly and bouncing around the dwarf.

"Okay," Varric sighed, "something clearly has you excited. Don't look at me, dog. If it's food you're wanting, I'm keeping out of the kitchens until the cook stops asking when I'm going to write the next chapter of - "

"He isn't hungry." The quiet voice over his shoulder made Varric jump, but only a little, not as much as it used to.

"Kid," the dwarf greeted him warmly. "What, you speak dog now too?"

"Speak?" Cole looked at Varric thoughtfully. "He didn't speak. But he knows this is the day. He wants to welcome her back. We should go to the gate."

"He knows what now? Welcome who?" Varric looked at the dog. Hawke's dog. "Wait, are you saying  _Hawke_  is back?"

"We should go to the gate."

Varric quickly agreed - with Cole or with the dog, he wasn't exactly sure - and to the gate they went.

* * *

Expecting to see Hawke and Fenris alone riding up the path to Skyhold, Varric whistled in astonishment at the sight that met him there. Hawke was easily recognized in the crowd; no doubt in concession to her advanced state of pregnancy, she was riding the horse that had stayed behind with them; Fenris with his shock of pale hair walked beside her, leading her steed, and it appeared that a pair of tiny elf-children were tucked atop the horse in front of her. But surrounding them walked two dozen or more elves, including one tiny mage that Varric recognized almost as readily as Hawke (Daisy still had that way of glancing around her as if lost) and one ex-Templar, without the Order's armor but still with his massive sword.

"Will you look at that," Varric mused, leaning back agasint the wall by the gate and taking it all in with a delighted grin. "Daisy's gone and sprouted a whole daisy patch."

* * *

Somehow the remark made the rounds of Skyhold and the name stuck. The ragtag band of elves whom Merrill had brought to Skyhold were soon known to all as the Daisy Patch. They were a clan of a patchwork sort, gathered a few at a time, from here and there, wherever Merrill had wandered after Kirkwall. The majority of the group were city elves, refugees of alienages throughout the Free Marches and Ferelden that had suffered violence in the wake of the Mages' and Templars' war. There were a few Dalish among them, marked by their vallaslin, but strangely not by the air of superiority with which Dalish elves elsewhere tended to treat those of their kind not so marked. These Dalish had apparently come to regard the other elves of their group as equals, family: clan and kin, markings or no. There were even, as Fenris had guessed, runaway slaves among them: a man and his teenaged son who had escaped from a Tevinter master and somehow ended up with the Daisy Patch. Despite their varying backgrounds, the refugees all had two things in common: one, they were all elves; two, they all seemed to see in Merrill (and by extension, since he was never far from her, Carver) the solution to all their problems. Overwhelmed by their dependence on her, Merrill had seen the Inquisitor's invitation as  _her_  solution. So here they were, two dozen elves come to join the Inquisition because their Keeper said so.

* * *

"I really don't see where we are to put them all," Josephine Montlyet fussed to Inquisitor Thayer Trevelyan as he tried to hold still for the seamstress who was fitting wedding garments to him. "Despite appearances, Skyhold is not actually a refugee camp."

"You'll think of something, darling," Thayer grinned at her. "You always do. Remember when that Duke came from, where was it? Montfort? Val Foret? Anyway, you know, the one with double the retinue we were told to expect, yet somehow you found a place for them all as if you'd planned it all along."

"Because I  _had_ ," she said with just a touch of smugness. "Duke Guillaume  _never_  travels with less than three dozen, and I - "

"And you have only two dozen elves to deal with now."

"For which I had no chance to plan! Dearest, you could have mentioned you had invited the whole clan here. And not just for a visit, but as recruits."

"Well, I didn't really expect them to take me up on it. Or not all at once. They looked like, you know, refugees, stragglers. I thought there might be a few of them who'd be interested in joining us. A life more stable than wandering, a place to start over. Turns out Merrill's actually forged them into something of a real clan, and now they stick together."

"Which is exactly the problem. I could house a few in the barracks, a few in the servants' quarters, and so on, but I don't think the Daisy Patch will appreciate being separated." She sighed and tugged at one of Thayer's sleeves, glancing at the seamstress. "These seem a bit long, don't you think, Aline?"

Holding his arm out awkwardly for the seamstress to measure, Thayer glanced over at his fiancee. "Sorry," he said. "I mean, I think they'll be quite an asset actually, the whole clan. Refugees - they're survivors. There's resourcefulness there, beneath the surface. And Carver and Merrill are pretty handy in a fight; I'm glad to have them here. But I am sorry for the burden it places on you. I'll help, if I can. Maybe we can construct shelters in the courtyard, or that wing that isn't fully repaired yet, that could be divided up into quarters for them, even have the elves themselves help with making it liveable. Or, you know, most of the mages will be leaving soon when Fiona's ready to launch the new College of Enchanters, and then the elves can have their tower. I won't send them away, though."

Josephine stared at him a moment before smiling and planting a fond kiss on his lips, startling a  _tsk!_  from the seamstress when the Inquisitor twisted away from the fitting to kiss her back. "Thayer," Josephine chided lightly, "do you ever stop? Can you ever say  _no_  to someone in need?"

"I'm pretty sure Aline here is needing me to hold still. Sorry, Aline, that's a definite  _no,_ " he grinned, reaching for Josie again, but she skipped back out of reach, apologizing to the seamstress with a laugh. "But truly," Thayer continued when he was again standing still enough for fitting, "what's the point of being Inquisitor if I don't do what I can to put the world back in order?"

She rolled her eyes at him, though he thought she looked pleased with his answer. "If your noble intentions truly run to the whole  _world_ , my love," she concluded, "someday we are going to need a bigger castle."

* * *

Lisbet Hawke absently brushed a fallen leaf from her hair as she straightened, with some difficulty, from helping one of the elves set up the last of the tents in the corner of the courtyard that the Daisy Patch had claimed for their temporary camp, while the Inquisition scrambled to find them a more permanent place. Her back ached in protest as she stood, and suddenly Fenris was at her side, an arm around her waist. "You need to rest," he pointed out.

"I rode most of the way," she answered, but she let him lead her away.

"And then insisted on helping them set up camp. You're overdoing it again, Hawke. With the baby due any day - "

"It's still a few weeks off," Hawke insisted, and then winced at a twinge of pain. But that was her back, wasn't it, not, well, anything to do with the infant who now kept her awake most of the nights, between the dance routine he seemed to be choreographing in her womb and the tiny space to which he now restricted her bladder?

Fenris felt her wince and said firmly, "You're going to go lie down now."

"In our lovely guest room. At least we have a room. Merrill's people - "

"Will be fine with Merrill looking after them. Not something I ever thought I'd say," he huffed, and then they were up the stairs and along the balcony overlooking the garden and there was their door, their bed, and -

Hawke gasped as the pain came again, definitely not just a twinge now, sharp and intense. Fenris, wide-eyed, lowered her to the bed. "A few weeks?" he asked. "You're sure?"

"Well…"

He barely paused for a disapproving frown before running off to find the midwife.

* * *

In between dealing with the elven housing crisis and Skyhold's other day to day business, and having finally escaped from the wedding garments, Thayer managed to time his arrival to Hawke's room just as the midwife was leaving.

"Not quite her time yet," the woman was telling Fenris, as the elf paused from pacing the balcony outside the guest room.

"Not time? But she - " In a blur, Fenris had pinned the woman against the wall, holding her up by her shoulders so that her feet dangled. "The pains. Was she not in labor? Is she all right?"

Thayer cleared his throat as he approached. "Fenris, if you could refrain from manhandling my staff…" The elf looked around, blinking as he recognized the Inquisitor and realized what he had done. Somewhat more gently than he had caught her, and with a quick but earnest apology, he let go of the midwife, who seemed surprisingly unruffled by the excitement, straightening her robes as he asked again, "Was she not in labor?"

"False labor," the midwife said, patting the elf's arm. Fenris froze, staring down at her hand, and Thayer wondered if the midwife had any idea how lucky she was that it was stll attached. Thus far. Oblivious, she went on, "Exertion brings it on early sometimes, but the babe needs some time yet."

"Exertion," Thayer observed, leaning back against the railing. "Like, say, a journey from the Hinterlands to Skyhold?"

Fenris' expression darkened as he glanced towards the door. "We should have come back sooner. But she was so happy to spend the time with Merrill, and even her brother seemed pleased to have her there. I let her stay too long."

"Letting Hawke do things, Fenris," said Thayer, "is, I've come to suspect, an illusion. You're not to blame."

Fenris hung his head without reply. The midwife turned to go, but he caught at her arm. "Wait. Tell me - she's all right? And the baby?"

"Just needs a few more weeks," the midwife nodded. "Your wife's strong; she'll be fine. No more of her running around though. If you don't want the babe coming early, and you don't, the mum should keep to her bed till her true time comes."

"Bed rest," Fenris murmured when the midwife was gone, when he was breathing again. "Hawke. On bed rest."

"Maker," Thayer met the elf's eyes in alarmed agreement. And together they went in to break the news to the restless, very pregnant Champion.


	2. Wherein a Champion is confined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weeks fly by as the Inquisitor's wedding approaches - except for Hawke, exceedingly pregnant and confined to bed rest.

**Hawkquisition Part 3: Patchwork Families  
Chapter 2**

_Wherein a Champion is confined_

Carver Hawke had gotten turned around in Skyhold Keep. There seemed no end to the hallways and stairways and, Maker, half of them seemed to not really go anywhere, or to double back around to the same place the last hallway had taken him. Snagging a biscuit from the kitchens the time he had ended up in there brightened his mood only temporarily, but the biscuit was long gone and he was lost. Though that should be no excuse, it may serve to explain why, when he rounded a corner and collided suddenly with a solid breastplate coming the other way, Carver exploded with, "Maker's blood, why don't you watch where you're - "

Unfortunately his tongue ran ahead of his eyes, which were just now recognizing the frown above the breastplate. To be fair, he'd have recognized it sooner if Cullen were wearing the Templar armor in which Carver was accustomed to seeing him. "Knight-Captain!" Carver stammered, "I - I - oh, blight it. Sorry, sir, I didn't see you there."

"It's not Knight-Captain anymore," Cullen pointed out with the weariness of one tired of correcting this detail. "I am Commander of the Inquisition forces now. And you...I know you, from Kirkwall, don't I? You were a Templar. The younger Hawke?"

Carver nodded, biting his tongue about the implied (and inevitable) comparison to his sister. (And given that his sister had never been a Templar, you'd think the former Knight-Captain could at least know him merely as Recruit Hawke?) "Carver, sir," he finally supplied.

"No longer a Templar yourself, from what I hear," mused Cullen, looking the young man over thoughtfully. "Not that there's technically an Order to go back to, now, what with the newly crowned Divine talking about dissolving the Circles."

"Maybe for the best," Carver said, seeing understanding in Cullen's eyes as they both recalled Kirkwall's suffering under Meredith's ever-tightening reign. "I wouldn't go back now, anyway. I'm needed here."

"Skyhold?"

"Well, not here specifically. Just...wherever the clan is. I guess you've seen them? Everyone's calling them the Daisy Patch, because of Merrill."

"The elven mage?" Cullen asked, eyes narrowing as he noted how Carver seemed to light up when he mentioned the refugee elves, and especially their leader.

"My, ah, girlfriend," Carver said with a proud smile made somewhat sheepish by the way he then blushed and rubbed at his jawline. "And you know how the Order is supposed to -  _was_ supposed to - protect mages? From their own power, and people who fear it? Well, that's what I'm here for. Merril's like a whole Circle all on her own, some days. I mean, she's amazing. But she can get carried away sometimes, so she needs me."

"I see." Cullen looked dubious.

"And I'm, er, trying to find her at the moment. I was supposed to meet her at the infirmary to check on Emmen - one of the clan. The Inquisitor brought him back here for the mages to heal."

"Well, then, we'd best reunite you with her before she burns something down, hadn't we?" Cullen said with a wry smile, beckoning Carver to follow him back the way he had come.

* * *

The white halls of the Grand Cathedral rang with voices and the slap of feet upon the marble as couriers and clergy hastened about their errands. Barely a week since her coronation, Divine Victoria smiled at the signs of life around her as she strode toward the tower. The reforms she had in mind would take time, but already the promise of change was reinvigorating the Chantry with life. She would not fail to use the momentum that her ascension had granted, to cast out what was broken and start anew to make the world worthy of its Maker.

Up the spiraling steps, and then the familiarity of the tower rookery overwhelmed her for just a moment. Certainly there were couriers to carry to her chambers the messages conveyed by the birds, but the Divine found it reassuring to stop by and see the feathered messengers herself from time to time.

"Your Perfection," gasped the lay sister minding the rookery today, bowing low.

"Sister Oriane," the Divine greeted her. "Anything to report?"

"Why, there's a message that just came," said the flustered sister. "Here - I mean, that is - shall I read it to you?"

"That won't be necessary," the Divine said. "But thank you. I'll have a look myself."

"The light is best by the north window," the sister needlessly suggested. Divine Victoria was a regular presence in this tower; she knew its windows almost as well as those of the rookery she had so recently departed. She was already stepping to the north as the sister spoke.

And in that pleasant light she felt a darkness passing over her eyes as she took in the short message:

> " _Divine" Nightingale:_
> 
> _Don't think this is a victory._
> 
> _The Sunburst Throne is no place for the Left Hand. You would undo everything we worked for. If you will not yield to a true Divine, we'll see how well "Victoria" can protect one she loves._

Divine Victoria frowned in thought, the tiny note crumpling in her fist, as she stood in the northern window for several long minutes, thinking. Plotting. Guessing.

Finally, without the answers she desperately sought, she made her way back down the spiraling steps, back to the Sunburst Throne in the light of the dimming afternoon sun.

* * *

Hawke had never considered herself a fidgeter.

A woman of action, certainly. Decisive. Quick-thinking. They seemed like good traits, until time came to a standstill on the day she almost lost the baby.

Granted, no one had said she had almost lost the baby. But she knew. The pains had begun, the midwife had come - but too soon. It was too soon for him to be born, and the midwife had given her something to keep him safely in her womb for just a little longer.

It seemed like very much longer, only one day into this business of  _bed rest_.

Fenris was as near bursting with worry as she was with restlessness, she could see. It didn't help that her restlessness was only making him worry more, and he had never been particularly patient. So she sent him on errands for her, her eyes longingly following him out the door, her heart wishing to travel with him, if only to get out of this room. And till he returned, she fidgeted.

Friends came to visit her. Varric, every day, telling her his impossible stories: whether he talked of miracles the Inquisitor had wrought or of what Sera had said to Iron Bull in the tavern, it was all marvelously impossible. She craved more of his lies, but the dwarf had his own duties as a member of the Inquisition so his visits were shorter than Hawke would have liked.

The Inquisitor himself managed to drop by most days too, in between Inquisiting and wedding planning (according to him, the latter was by far the most demanding). Sometimes Josephine, when she was not herself occupied with wedding planning, came with him. Sometimes Josie alone came to engage Hawke in "girl talk" that Hawke had not realized how much she had missed, having seen little of her female friends in recent months, besides Merrill, whose talk tended to leave Hawke bewildered. Talking with Josephine - it was like having her baby sister back, sometimes, though Josie was worlds more practical than sweet Bethany had ever been, and knew none of the Hawke girls' inside jokes, or - well, nevertheless, the lady ambassador was sweet and empathetic, smart and kind, a welcome distraction, and becoming a fast friend. As was her fiance; Hawke could not help but like his cheerful interest in every person whose path crossed his, his boundless energy, his wit and charm mixed with the practicality of a born leader. Hawke realized, almost as an afterthought, that she was not just building a friendship with Thayer, but finding in him a leader she would not hesitate to follow. Even if he had once led her through the Fade.

Merrill came often, babbling in her good-natured curiosity, asking Hawke endless questions about her pregnancy, about being married, about magic, about the Inquisition, about human culture, about anything and everything that crossed the Dalish mage's mind. Hawke smiled and let her talk till Merrill would start apologizing for rambling, at which point Hawke would say, "Don't you even  _think_  of shutting up, Merrill. By the way, how's Carver?" and that never failed to make the elf brighten up and gush about her newfound love, which was a little creepy to his big sister but also excellent little-brother-blackmail material, so Hawke drank it all in patiently.

Carver himself even came to visit on occasion, looking so awkward that Lisbet felt right at home, but inevitably she would say something to offend him and he'd leave in a huff. He came back, though. Perhaps that was the definition of family, after all.

There were new friends as well. Dorian visited surprisingly often. He seemed more discomfited by the very visible extent of her pregnancy than anything, but he enjoyed discussing magic with her. This was made more awkward by the fact that Fenris rarely left her side when Dorian visited, and would sit there glowering at the Tevinter mage as if certain that Hawke was about to become a blood sacrifice at any moment, or worse, be flirted with; but as Dorian proved benign day after day and Lisbet grew to enjoy her discussions with him, even Fenris relaxed and showed the Tevinter a greater respect.

Cassandra visited, or  _tried_  to, but she seemed almost tongue-tied around the Champion, on whom once she had pinned so many hopes, and fascinated to the point of awkwardness by Hawke's advanced pregnancy. After a couple of stilted conversations, the embarrassed Seeker did not return to Hawke's bedside.

Others came and went, but ever when she least expected it, Cole would be there. Sometimes he came in by the door like anyone else; more often she would look round and there he was, so intent upon  _helping_  that sometimes it made her anxious just to see him, wondering what he thought was wrong with her now. But his compassion won her heart before long, and Lisbet welcomed his visits gently and warmly. It was a little disconcerting, however, when he started trying to translate the inchoate thoughts of her child in the womb.

So many friends looking after her; Hawke should have been well occupied - and yet, the hours alone in bed far outweighed the times when company came to distract her, and Hawke fidgeted. It didn't help that she was very, very pregnant and there was no such thing as  _comfortable_  anymore. Lying down was not comfortable. Sitting up in bed was not comfortable. Turning to her side was not comfortable, and she suspected if she ever managed to roll onto her belly, she would be stuck there. Getting up to relieve herself, with the aid of Fenris or the serving girl who came to check on her, was exceptionally not comfortable. Lisbet was a patient woman, but some of that patience was contingent on being able to do something, to work toward the ends she desired, and the lack of ways to exert herself during these weeks was fraying her patience to the breaking point.

* * *

Hawke's was not the only patience threatened by her enforced bed rest. Fenris was torn between fear and - well, annoyance. She could  _die_ , carrying his child, and he would protect her from any harm, with his own life if it would help, but there was little he could do to protect her from  _this_. They could only wait, try to follow the midwife's orders, and hope for the best. Now and then, when she sent him to fetch whatever food she was craving lately, or to carry a message to someone, or just to get him out of the room before they drove each other crazy (he was well aware that she was doing so), he would slip into the small chapel near Skyhold's garden. He had no words to pray - he had never really learned any of the Chant, neither Tevinter's version nor Sebastian's - but he would stand there for a minute, just looking at the statue of Andraste, and remember that he had heard that the Bride of the Maker had been a mother herself. And after a minute he would fix upon the statue a glare more eloquent than all the words of the Chant itself, speaking of hopes and fears and  _Maker help me, if she doesn't deliver this child soon…_  Then, certain that no deity could afford to overlook such an ultimatum, he would spin on his barefoot heel and march off to finish his errand, and back to Hawke's side.

Her side was becoming a more difficult place to be, despite his depths of devotion. Literally so: at night she tossed and turned so, trying to position herself so that she could sleep, that many a night, Fenris, startled out of sleep himself, would slip out onto the balcony and sit, perched on the railing, staring at the stars.

Cole found him there one night and brought his moody thoughts up short. "She wants you to say she's pretty," the spirit announced, without preamble and with that air of one pleased to be of service.

Fenris gaped at him, unable to form a coherent response.

"Growing, swelling, can't move, must move, Maker I'm  _huge_ , why won't he look at me, do I look as awful as I feel? Never be pretty again, can't - "

"Cole," Fenris snapped, "has it ever occurred to you that  _some thoughts are private_?"

Cole just stared at him.

"Never mind," Fenris said finally, turning away from the odd visitor to stare out at the garden. "Go away."

By the time Fenris glanced around again, the spirit was gone. He gave it a moment more, then slipped down from the railing and back into his chambers.

Hawke had, miraculously, gone to sleep, her eyes darting in dreams behind eyelids dark from the wakeful hours. Fenris hesitated to disturb her. Perhaps it was of its own accord, then, that his hand reached to brush the dark hair back from her face, that his lips brushed the faint freckles over her nose with a kiss -

She woke; her eyes, of that green even deeper than his, almost olive, that always looked full of shadow and mystery to him, blinked blearily as she focused on his face. "Fenris?" she mumbled his name, and he had never heard anything sweeter.

He sat on the bed beside her, kissing her lips now, cupping her cheek with one hand. Perhaps her cheek was rounder now, filling out with the weight she had gained or the water retained in bearing their child, but her lips were as soft and sweet as ever; her round, small ears still enchanted him; her eyes still made him catch his breath. So he said simply, truly, "I needed to tell you you're pretty."

She leaned on an elbow, regarding him. "You woke me to tell me I'm pretty?" Her tone went beyond disbelief to a sort of resigned  _I'm dreaming and this is the Fade, right?_  as she tried to make sense of the conversation.

"No," he corrected himself as a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "That you are beautiful. In every way. You grow lovelier every day."

"I do nothing but grow, these days," she scoffed, but a smile began to grow too.

"Exactly," he said. "Lovelier." And then he proceeded to enumerate for her the charms of her beauty - from her eyes to her freckles and on down - to finally, "Loveliest of all," and he kissed her swollen abdomen, making her giggle.

"Sweet talker," she sighed, and a tension seemed to have drained out of her as he talked. Weariness overcame her then, eyelids drooping till he could no longer see the mystery of her eyes. Fenris gathered her in his arms, resting his hand over hers on her belly, and they slept the rest of the night through without disruption.


	3. Wherein Varric acquires a new title

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Threats to the Divine and the Inquisition are nothing compared to the threat of a pregnant Hawke confined to bed.

**Hawkquisition Part 3: Patchwork Families  
Chapter 3**

_Wherein Varric acquires a new title_

"I think he's getting better, Carver. Do you think he's getting better?" Merrill stood wringing her hands.

"I don't know, Merrill," Carver frowned, regarding the elven boy motionless on the infirmary cot. "Still a lot of red." Emmen was lucky to still be alive, he supposed, with the amount of red lyrium that had been growing on and in him when the Inquisitor found him.

"But he's not so squirmy today. Last time we checked on him, he was flinching at every sound, every bit of a breeze. Maybe it doesn't hurt so much today."

_Or maybe he's beyond feeling pain already,_  Carver thought but did not wish to worry Merrill. "Maybe. I'm sure he'll be all right."

"Oh, he has to! He's one of the people, Carver," she reminded him, darting a glance up at him with all the intensity that had so often made him lose his way with her, stammering and helpless. "He's our responsibility, as sure as if he were our own son. We couldn't just leave him to die, if he were our son, could we?"

_Our son?_ Carver nearly choked, cleared his throat and looked at Merrill oddly. "Er - sweetheart - if there's something you're wanting to tell me..." he mumbled.

"And Linian's still so sad," Merrill went on, oblivious to the leap Carver's thoughts had made. "And now the mages are leaving the Inquisition to form their own group. Creators, I hope they find a cure before they go!"

"Sure they will," Carver said, silencing his own doubts and wrapping his arm around Merrill's shoulder.

* * *

With a deep sigh of frustration, Hawke flung the book aside - towards the door, where it barely missed Fenris as he entered with the cheese she had sent him for. Fenris arched an eyebrow, looking slowly from the book back to Hawke. "One of Varric's, I presume?"

"No," she frowned. "It's...just a book about parenting."

His eyes widened as he sat in the visitor's chair beside her, handing her the snack. "I do not expect raising this child to be easy, Hawke, but surely it cannot be as bad as this book says. On the assumption, that is, that you were throwing the book at me because  _I_  got you into this mess and the book has convinced you it will be a disaster."

She blinked, then looked over to see the corners of his mouth turned up. Just the hint of mirth in him had its usual effect on her: Hawke burst out laughing in delight and couldn't stop until at last her breath was spent and it nearly hurt to laugh anymore. Then she subsided with a sigh and answered, "Nothing like that, though if it does turn out to be a disaster, I'm going to remember that you just claimed responsibility for it." She balanced the cheese tray on her belly and reached up to touch his cheek. "Actually, I'll just remember it anyway, even if it turns out to be as much of a delight as I know it will."

He pinched a slice of cheese from her tray. "What was so terrible about your book, then?"

"Nothing inside of it. It's just frustrating, trying to hold a book that big comfortably while I'm stuck in bed. All right for a while, but I can only read so long before…" She looked up at him with eyes alight. "Better idea. Read to me, Fenris."

He looked dubious. "The...parenting book?"

"Hm. Preferably not. I've had enough of  _weighty_  advice for today," she grinned. He rolled his eyes obligingly. "I know what. On the table, there - Josephine brought a book of children's tales for the baby. Read that to us."

"To you both?" His smile returned, slow and thoughtful now.

"I think he can hear us. He should get used to hearing his father reading to him. Why not start now?"

So Fenris picked up the book of tales, settled into the chair with his legs propped up on the side of the bed (subject to occasional tickling at Hawke's whim, from which not even his reflexive kicks could deter her), and read to his family the tale of The Big Blue Mabari, and the tale of The Nug Who Came for Dinner, and the tale of The Ugly Deepstalker, and the tale of Andraste's Gift to the Dragon, until Hawke drifted off to sleep with a smile on her lips and scattered bits of cheese tumbling off her belly. Then Fenris leaned in to gather the cheese, and said: "I suppose you've gone to sleep too, littlest Hawke?" But as he set the cheese tray aside and rested a hand on Hawke's belly, he felt the child within stir and kick (taking after his father, obviously) and said: "Well, then. I'll read on."

* * *

> _The nightingale belongs with the ravens, not upon the sun._
> 
> _Those who supported her will share in her fall._

Thayer Trevelyan waited, perched on Josephine's desk with his arms crossed over his chest, as Varric read the crumpled note. And read it again, frowning.

"Well," the dwarf said finally. "Whoever sent this has an even worse sense of melodrama than I do, but I agree, it's something to do with our ex-spymaster."

"Someone clearly opposes Leliana's appointment as Divine," Josephine said briskly.

"Not surprising," said Thayer. "There's always some opposition to appointments of that magnitude, and between Leliana's lay origins and her planned reforms, she's making plenty of enemies."

"And probably made many during her time with the Inquisition, as well," Josephine added.

Varric squinted an eye at the note. "I thought it took a unanimous vote to get a Divine elected."

"True," said Josephine. "But clerics who conceded to their colleagues' opinions on the matter may have had second thoughts afterwards. Or the threat may come from parties outside the College of Clerics. Or outside the Chantry entirely. Sadly, we have little to go on."

"And you called me here because…"

Thayer grinned, bounding up from the desk, and put an arm around the dwarf's shoulders. "My friend, do you recall one of our early conversations at Haven? I asked you once why Leliana, and not you, was our spymaster."

"Oh no you don't, Shiny." Varric spread his arms wide, palms out as if to fend off what he saw coming. "My answer then still applies. I don't have the ruthlessness for the job."

"But you do have your own network of contacts," Thayer pressed, "and knowledge of how to use them. Whereas the Inquisition, since our Nightingale's departure, is left with an excellent spy network who have no one, really, to answer to."

"Technically, they answer to you, Your Heraldiness…"

"Thayer has so many responsibilities as it is," Josephine reminded them. "Also, a tendency to engage anyone he's ever met, however briefly, in conversation, which may be hazardous to our agents' cover at times."

"It's all you, my dwarven friend," Thayer concluded. "Mind you, I'm not asking you to take this on as a permanent position. Josephine and Cullen have some ideas about a full time replacement for Leliana. But until such a person is in place, we badly need someone to help us get to the bottom of this business about these threats to the Divine."

"And, clearly, to the Inquisition for supporting her," said Josie.

"Hm. Fine, then. I'll see what I can do about the threats, at least. Just don't take your time with the recruiting-a- _real_ -spymaster thing, okay? And I refuse to hang out in the tower with those birds."


	4. Wherein the baby is not named

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pregnancy stress is getting to Fenris. Dagna has a new exciting project. And Varric turns detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my! Two chapters done today! 
> 
> This sudden burst of productivity brought to you by the fact that I had my prep period earlier in the week than most of my final exams, so I had little grading to do while waiting to give exams...

**Hawkquisition Part 3: Patchwork Families  
Chapter 4**

_Wherein the baby is not named_

Bright sun streamed in through the window of Hawke's bedroom, illuminating the dust motes dancing above the canopied bed where she lay. It was almost idyllic, Fenris thought. Except for his little bird's keening cries as the pains of labor gripped her, of course. He held her hand, stroked sweat-tangled hair back from her forehead, whispered that it would be all right. Wondered why the midwife did not come.

Outside, the bustle of the city went on, a strange background music to the melody of Hawke's screams. Something was wrong; he was sure of it. There should not be so much blood, such pain. She had been in labor too long. There was only so much a woman could withstand, and she was a  _mage_. He knew what they were capable of when saner options were exhausted. And he had never seen anyone look as exhausted as his wife at this moment. Her city loved its Viscountess, yet Fenris alone was here in her hour of need. Where  _was_  that midwife? Delayed in the Hanged Man yet again, no doubt.

"Fenris," Hawke gasped between contractions. "I...I can't...It's too much…"

He saw her eyes close, saw the shimmer of magic about her, and knew the worst had come to pass. " _No,_ " he cried. "You shall not have her, demon!"  _Nor my son,_  he thought, and with that thought the lyrium in his arms flared to life. Fenris plunged his hands without hesitation into Hawke's womb, ripping from it the child that had grown there so long and had tried in vain, for the past many hours, to find its own way out into the sunlight.

As the elf stood there, holding the child dripping with blood -  _Hawke's_  blood, he distantly registered - a slow clap sounded from the doorway that led out into Hawke's estate. "Well done, my little wolf," said the smug voice of Danarius, striding confidently toward the bed. "Now give the child to me. Born to a slave, he can be naught else but a slave."

As if from a distance, Fenris heard himself docilely respond, "Yes, Master," handing the squalling newborn babe over to the magister with head bowed, while Hawke lay silent, bleeding out her last…

And then with a strangled cry, Fenris woke, sitting up with a lurch, drenched in sweat, heart racing. Beside him, Hawke, still very pregnant and blessedly alive, not in her Kirkwall estate at all but safe and sound in Skyhold's guest room, stirred and mumbled something. He had a moment to breathe, to will his heart to steady itself, before she came awake enough to ask what was wrong.

"Just...a bad dream," he finally managed, though he felt the weight of dismissal in reducing the nightmare so. "Ugh. I  _hate_  the Fade, Hawke."

"Hm. Still wish you'd come with me to Skyhold the first time, then? It's even freakier when you aren't dreaming."

"I...suppose not, if the Nightmare demon you encountered was anything like the one behind this dream," he grimaced.

"Tell me?" she offered gently, twining her fingers with his.

Haltingly, he described the dream. She lay quiet for a while before summing up her reaction: "Wow."

"Indeed."

"I wonder. You think you actually  _could_  use your markings to, you know, deliver the baby? Without the nightmarish side effects of killing me in the process, preferably. You managed with Carver and that knife and..."

" _No_ , Hawke," he said firmly. "Besides, there will be no need."

"And probably there will be a midwife when it really happens. It's just that I am so ready to be done with this part of becoming a mother. And I think  _he_  is just as ready to get out of his tight quarters, this fledgling of ours, this baby hawk, this…"

"Eyas," Fenris supplied.

"What now?"

"Eyas," he repeated. "It's what a baby hawk is called, you know." When she looked at him with that wide-eyed, fond look that usually followed such a demonstration of obscure knowledge she hadn't realized he had, he flushed and explained, "Danarius dabbled in falconry, one year. Sometimes I was made to give my arm to the birds as a perch, when he tired of them tearing at his robes." He shrugged as if the memory itself could be so easily shrugged aside, but Hawke was not fooled.

She sat up (ponderously) to wrap an arm around him, cozying her head against his side. "He is gone now," she reminded him gently. "He can't demand anything more of you. It was just a dream."

"Sometimes," he murmured, "I think that  _this_  is the dream. Any moment now, I will wake up, back in Tevinter. Alone."

"Not without me, you won't," she insisted with her delightful illogic. "And our...Eyas, was it? Hm. Sorry, no. That is not the baby name we're looking for."

With a chuckle he reminded her, "There's always Varric. Has a day passed that he hasn't hinted at naming it after him?"

"Nope. You're not seriously considering it, though?"

"I'd be afraid my child's first words would be to call me 'Broody'."

With a merry laugh, she started suggesting other names, to which he responded with suggestions of his own. Few were any more serious than actually calling the baby Varric, and most of them plunged her into such giggles that gradually the shadows of his nightmare faded away in the light of her laugh.

* * *

It was almost indecent, Cullen thought, the interest the arcanist was taking.

Dagna had heard about the elven boy seeded with red lyrium, of which the mages had as yet been unable to cure him, for all that they had counted it a triumph when they were able to stabilize his condition and stop the stuff from growing any further. While the Commander could see that it made sense for someone like Dagna to lend her expertise, did she really have to look so excited about it? The way the preternaturally cheery dwarf's eyes lit up when she inspected Emmen in the infirmary had made Cullen a little queasy. All the more so when she insisted on having the boy moved into the Undercroft where she could "run proper tests".

But the Inquisitor was eager to see the boy cured by whatever means necessary, and Dagna had more experience than anyone in the Inquisition with researching red lyrium - she'd pulled strings and worked miracles to find a way to counteract the armor made of the stuff that Samson had worn, after all. Surely there was no one at Skyhold more capable of solving this problem. But the cackle of glee with which she'd begun the tests as soon as Emmen was installed in the Undercroft could not be unheard. Cullen made haste to excuse himself and leave her to her research...Maker grant it, her miracle-working.

* * *

A little sleuthing revealed that the note Thayer had shown him was not the only creepy threat to have turned up at Skyhold. Varric's established network of contacts was based mainly in Kirkwall and other cities in which his family did business, but he had the makings of a Skyhold network already at hand. He made the rounds of the stronghold, chatting, greasing palms, gradually building up a codex of sorts. Three anonymous notes had been received so far: one to Thayer, one to the Inquisition's quartermaster, and surprisingly enough, one to Enchanter Vivienne.

"I certainly did not keep it, darling," Madame de Fer informed him. "I saw no need to trifle myself with such nonsense."

"You can't at least remember what it said?" Varric grasped.

"An idle threat, couched in amateur riddles of which any proper bard would be ashamed. From what I could gather, it had something to do with the disbanding of the Circle of Magi."

"Motivation?" Varric mused. "I can't imagine most mages - yeah, you're an exception, Iron Lady - will miss being stuck in Circles against their will."

"Some of us remained loyal," Vivienne sniffed. "To no end, it seems, if Divine Victoria intends to so lightly undo a system that has withstood the ages."

"Withstood is perhaps not the word I would use," Varric muttered. "Back to the note though. Are you saying the sender seemed to be  _for_  or  _against_  disbanding the Circle?"

"I took it as an objection to such a foolish move. Then again, since I myself object to the dissolution of the Circles, perhaps my reading was not unbiased."

"Unlike so much about you. Well, if you remember anything else, or happen to find where you tossed the actual note..." With no further ideas for inquiry, Varric bowed and saw himself out.


	5. Wherein the baby is named

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the end of this chapter, there will be one more Hawke in the world.

**Hawkquisition Part 3: Patchwork Families  
Chapter 5**

_Wherein the baby is named_

On the day that Lisbet Hawke finally did go into labor - real, honest-to-Andraste labor, none of the false contractions, nothing to do with the Fade - everything was going as it should, and Fenris doubted that could last.

The midwife was precisely where she should be when Fenris ran to find her, and nothing delayed her returning immediately to their room, from which she quickly shooed Hawke's anxious husband to await the outcome on the balcony. The scullery maid whom the midwife had conscripted on the way there came and went from the room with such haste and single-mindedness, fetching water, towels, ointments, possibly the entire contents of some secret "childbirth" closet hidden somewhere in the keep, that Fenris was both comforted to see that someone seemed to know what they were doing, and all the more on edge to see how urgently and how often the maid rushed to and from Hawke's chamber. Did that mean something had gone wrong?

He wanted to be in there. He should be with her. Then again, remembering his recent nightmare, perhaps it was best for him to obey the midwife and wait patiently…

"Patient" was not really among the words Hawke had taught him to read.

It was just as well that Varric soon turned up to wait with him. The dwarf understood Fenris better than most people at Skyhold, excepting only Hawke herself, and Varric probably loved Hawke better than anyone at Skyhold excepting Fenris himself. Between the two of them, she would be all right.

If only they didn't have to wait outside.

"Take it easy, elf," Varric chuckled when Fenris' pacing became too much for him. "She's handled a lot worse than giving birth."

"Has she?" Fenris recalled the nightmare and wondered. "This is different, Varric. It's just...There's so much pain involved."

"So I'm told, yes…"

"And she's a mage."

"Still not seeing the connection, Broody."

Fenris hesitated, ears twitching restlessly. Then, slumping against the wall and sliding down to a sitting position, arms balanced on his knees, fists clenched, he confessed: "She once asked me what I would do if ever she became an abomination. If I would kill her...it."

Varric, taken aback, gaped and asked, "And...you said,  _of course not, dear_? I hope?"

"No. I promised I would."

"You'd kill  _Hawke_?"

"Not Hawke. An abomination; she'd be lost to us before I would do it. She made me promise, Varric. And it was easier to promise back then. She has proven her strength over and over. I know of no mage less likely to succumb. The very fact that she would ask me to...She is well guarded in her own mind. I was to be a last line of defense. I would die for her, Varric, but if the worst came to pass, protecting her could be a matter of protecting others from...what she had become. She trusts me to keep that promise. To make sure no one can ever be harmed if she loses control."

"Maker," the dwarf shook his head. "And you really think  _childbirth_  is, what, going to bring out her inner demon after all these years?"

"Any mage is vulnerable. Surely she's more vulnerable now than ever."

"Look, this childbirth thing, I've heard it's been done before. Other women - even mages - have managed it without getting possessed. Even, if the rumors are true, our own sainted mothers, would you believe it?"

Fenris arched an eyebrow, considering the dwarf's words, then finally sighed and leaned back against the wall. "I suppose you're right."

Moments later, the door burst open as the maid hurried out yet again on whatever errand the midwife had charged her with. Pained cries could be heard from inside the room.  _Hawke's cries,_  Fenris realized, and before he could think twice, " _Venhedis_. Enough of this," he swore, and darted into the room before the door could close.

It was dim inside; the window faced away from the afternoon sun. As his eyes adjusted, Fenris saw the midwife bent over Hawke, where she sat propped up in an odd sort of chair, which the midwife had delivered to their room a few days ago when she judged that the time for delivery was near. The woman was rubbing some sort of oil on Hawke's bared belly. Hearing Fenris enter, she glanced up briefly, saying, "Well, that was quick. I…" Then seeing him, she scowled and added, "You're not Evalyn."

"The maid?" Fenris guessed.

"Never mind, you'll have to do. Bring me another cloth from the table."

He hurried to do so; returning to Hawke's side, he saw other such cloths heaped on the floor, soaked with blood.  _Too much blood,_  he panicked, his dream flashing to memory. "What's...is something wrong?" he could barely speak.

"She's losing blood, more than I'd like," the midwife grumbled, grabbing the cloth from him and doing something - Fenris looked away. He reached for Hawke's hand; she gripped it tightly, straining against the next contraction. The midwife continued: "The babe's facing wrong and her womb's been torn, I fear. I'm going to have to turn him now, or there'll be more damage to her before we get this one out. Hold this." She shoved the bloody cloth at him. Fenris regarded it in horror, then looked up to see the midwife coating her hands with some sort of salve before kneeling and reaching up between his wife's legs, frowning in concentration as she carefully nudged the infant within into the proper position. Fenris stared back at the cloth in his hands, seeing the tattoos that lined them, wondering if he  _could_  make use of his curse, his gift, to reach in and set things right within the womb.

But the midwife knew her business too well for Fenris' talents to be required, and before he could do anything desperate, she was leaning back with a sigh and, "That's done. Won't be long now."

And it wasn't, but it felt like an age passed as the midwife ordered Fenris here and there, fetching cloths, mopping sweat from Hawke's brow, giving her his hand again to clench when the contractions overtook her. Whispering her name. " _Hawke._  Lisbet, you're nearly there, you can do this…" At some point the errant maid returned and took her place in this odd assembly line, leaving Fenris free to remain crouched at Hawke's side, soothing her.

And then with one last push, Hawke's last cry was echoed by a new cry, thin and plaintive, sounding almost surprised at this new, wide world it had entered into so violently. The maid was dipping water into a basin from the pot they'd kept heating over the room's small fireplace, so the midwife turned to Fenris, sliding her wriggling, squalling burden into his hands as he gaped with eyes wide. "Here now, hold him still so I can cut the cord." He forgot to breathe then, gazing down on the newborn, dark wet hair plastered to the tiny brow. Then his child was free of that last link to his mother's womb, and the midwife nudged Fenris over toward the maid with her basin. "Go on then, wash him up. Evalyn will help. I must see to his mum; she's bleeding still. This hasn't been easy on her…" He wanted to look back at Hawke, to worry about her bleeding, but there was Evalyn with water warmed to wash the child, and then a warm dry cloth in which to wrap him. Nor was a bath alone sufficient for the newborn; Evalyn had oil and salt with which to rub his ruddy skin, hot water and honey with which to rub his tongue. "To give him an appetite," she told the new father in a conspiratorial whisper.

"That hardly seems necessary," Fenris observed, given the baby's wailing as he demanded to meet his mother  _now_. "This one was born hungry."

The maid giggled. "Well, maybe it's just working." She rubbed the last of the excess oil from the baby's nose as he flinched away from the cloth, then at last Fenris was released to bring him back to Hawke.

The midwife had moved her to the bed, propped up against more pillows than he could remember having been there in all the weeks she'd spent in that bed to this point. Hawke looked... _weary,_  he realized. Pale, drained of strength or of the blood that had flowed too freely, as if the lifeline linking her to herself had been cut like the umbilical cord. The midwife was dabbing sweat from her brow, but her hair was nearly as wet as the newborn babe's had been. Then her eyes met his, and the light in them was a relief. Fenris sat beside her on the bed, placing the baby in her arms, slowly, precisely, as if they were enacting some great ceremony.

In truth, he thought, that was exactly what they were doing.

"Oh," she squeaked, her voice raw from screaming, as she took him and one tiny hand pulled free from the blanket to reach for her. Eyes unaccustomed to even the dim light of their chamber blinked up at her; blue and pale they were for now, uncertain whether they would darken in time to Fenris' moss green or the barely darker olive of Hawke's. "Oh, he's  _perfect_. Fenris, oh,  _look._ "

And look he did, drinking in the sight as she brought the baby to her breast, his tiny cries becoming contented, if muffled, sighs, as his infant hunger found what it had been seeking. Fenris gazed on them, his arm around her back and his head on her shoulder, as Hawke greeted her child with soft coos and wordless murmurs. He watched them still as the midwife reported that Hawke's bleeding had stopped, but her condition would remain delicate.

Hawke didn't even stop smiling when she was informed that this would mean  _more_  weeks of bed rest, while her womb healed and they prayed for no childbed fever to set in.

"So," she said to Fenris some time later that night, when the midwife had gone, leaving strict orders to Varric outside that no one besides herself was to enter the room until she said so. Eventually, of course, Fenris would circumvent that order and let friends in to visit. Varric, at least. But not until after they had decided on a name and could definitively inform the dwarf that it wasn't his. "So," Hawke said again, "you got to hold him before I did."

"It was only fair," Fenris said. "You had nine months to carry him. I should get a turn."

"Hm. Say that again when it's time to carry him to the changing table," she suggested. Fenris made a face at her and she laughed softly, as if hesitant to be too loud with the baby near. "He's going to look like you," she said.

Fenris ran a finger over the tiny, round, perfectly human ears, and said, "That seems unlikely."

"I know he won't look elven. But he's going to have your nose. Your eyes, or some human version of them. I do so decree."

"Hm. We shall see." He brushed at the baby's thick, dark hair. "He has your hair."

"Yours might have been as dark once, before…"

"Maybe. Does it matter? He is...an elf-blooded eyas and he could not be more marvelous."

"We're not actually calling him that though."

"Elf-blooded?" His eyes sparked with teasing.

She elbowed him; the baby stirred at the motion, but quickly lost interest in this domestic dispute and went back to his dinner. "No. Eyas."

"Then we must yet choose a name, Lisbet. Quickly, before Varric leaves us no choice."

"Actually, I thought…" She traced the line of the baby's nose with a finger. "Could we name him Malcolm? After my father."

Fenris thought on this for a while. "Your father," he said at last. "He was a mage."

"Yes." She bristled a little but before she could leap to Malcolm Hawke's defense, Fenris proceeded to do so for her.

"Of a rare sort, it seems from what I know of him. He alone trained you, yes? What you know of magic - your control, your wisdom, your  _goodness_  - all these you learned from your father." Her eyes widened in surprise as she nodded. "Then it is fitting that we borrow his name," he said. "And may our son inherit those traits with it."  _Especially,_  he thought,  _if he has also inherited his grandfather's magic._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: For the record, the only time in my life I have been present at a childbirth was the day I was born...Also, this is Thedas, so I presume things would have gone differently than in a modern delivery room. So I did some research on medieval midwifery and I really hope my ignorance of the matter did not make this story too unbelievable!
> 
> I pondered having magic play a role in the delivery process. Do you suppose that would be common in Thedas midwifing? How would one use magic, anyway, to deliver a baby? However, I don't think Fenris would approve, and most of the mages at Skyhold have left to form the new College of Enchanters, and Hawke's in no position to use magic on herself during this process, really. So we'll just ignore the possibility...for now.
> 
> Do let me know what you think! (about the above or about anything in the story really...comments are always appreciated!)


	6. Wherein Linian catches a rare bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude: Varric, sleuthing! Finally a lead on the threats to the Divine...

**Hawkquisition Part 3: Patchwork Families  
Chapter 6**

_Wherein Linian catches a rare bird_

"Hrmph." Varric grumped as he read the latest report from one of his contacts looking into the threats to the Divine. No one had been able to recall seeing any of the suspicious notes delivered to Skyhold, so Varric had turned to his spy network to dig for possible suspects. Who would object to Leliana as Divine? Just about everyone, looked like. Sister Nightingale hadn't even been a proper cleric, just a lay sister and then the Left Hand of Divine Justinia, but most ranking clerics had died at the Conclave and those who were left behind to choose a successor were not the sort who could win the votes for themselves. So in the end, the Council of Clerics had shocked the world by placing the Inquisition's Spymaster on the Sunburst Throne, where she proceeded to shock the clerics with her demands for reform. As Divine Victoria, she vowed to disband the Circle of Magi, open the priesthood to all races, and redevote the Chantry to good works. If it could survive her sweeping changes.

Varric had been searching for suspects among those who objected to these changes. There were plenty of clerics who were not satisfied with the new Divine, of course, even though the Council had somehow reached a unanimous vote to select her. As for the mages, most of them seemed to be pleased with the prospect of freedom from the Circles, but there were loyalists like Vivienne who saw this reform as a disaster. Then there were the templars - not that there were many of them left after Lord Seeker Lucius had delivered the order to Corypheus, but the uncorrupted templars were essentially out of work with the Circles gone. Reason enough for them to hate the new Divine.

In the weeks since Thayer had asked Varric to investigate, his contacts had put forth plenty of names of clerics, mages, templars, and even bards who had reason to wish Leliana's reforms thwarted, or the Nightingale herself brought low. Investigating each and every one of them was a tedious process, and they had little to show for it so far. The catch was, whoever was behind the threats hadn't actually  _done_  anything to back them up - yet. Anyone could send a cryptic note. Maybe even more than one person had been sending them, considering how many they'd gotten - as had the Divine herself, from what Leliana had written to Josephine in between wedding planning letters. What he needed was evidence that someone was going to act on their threats. He feared that evidence would come too late, in the form of crimes to be punished rather than prevented.

And then, the Maker smiled on them.

Varric was in the tavern, sharing a drink and an update on his sleuthing with Fenris, who, as a new father, needed the diversion, or so Varric thought. He also thought the elf needed to stop nodding off over his wine, but that was first-time parents for you. Baby Malcolm had had (or had given his parents) a bad night, apparently. Varric generously overlooked the elf's inattentiveness, taking the opportunity to talk through the information he had gathered in an effort to make sense of it himself.

A clatter of chairs near the tavern door interrupted Varric's monologue. He looked up to see the usually graceful Lady Ambassador, righting the chair she had just stumbled into in her haste.

"Ruffles!" Varric welcomed her as she hurried over to their table. Fenris opened his eyes momentarily with a faint huff. Chuckling at the elf, Varric continued, "To what do we owe the pleasure? Must be something really special to pull you away from your paperwork."

"Look, Varric," she said, eyes shining as she thrust a crumpled parchment under his nose. "A letter from Leliana. It just came."

He perked up, smelling a lead. "And you didn't rush all the way here just to pass along greetings from the Divine's pet nugs, I'd guess."

Josephine shook her head. "She received another threatening note."

"Okay. Anything new in this one?"

"Not in the wording, no. More of the usual unsubtle riddles. But look here," she jabbed at a line in the letter. "Leliana intercepted  _this_  note in the Grand Cathedral's rookery herself, right as it was delivered."

"And?"

" _She recognized the raven that had brought it._ "

He read the lines she was pointing out. Read them over again. Whistled, low and slow. "Well, I'll be a nug's uncle. No offense to the Hawkling, elf." Fenris opened an eye again only long enough for a suitable glare at baby Malcolm's self-appointed "Uncle Varric", who continued: "Baron Plucky, eh? Heh. I bet she sent her letter to you back with him, too."

"Varric, surely you see the implication…"

"Oh, do I ever. Whoever's behind the threats, they're here. Sending notes to Val Royeaux, leaving them on the Inquisitor's pillow, whatever. It starts at Skyhold." He gave Josephine a sly grin as he folded up Leliana's letter, adding it to the notebook of evidence he'd brought to show Fenris. "It's not much, but it's the first real lead we've had. Nice work, Ruffles."

* * *

 

The Rookery was dark and spooky at night, but Linian wasn't afraid of the dark. Nor did the cawing of the birds in their cages overhead disturb her. She was Dalish. She hadn't been afraid to go looking for Emmen on her own (though she kept to herself the nightmares she'd had afterwards, the green glow, the demons, the shemlen with their red lyrium…), and she was not afraid to wait here, watching the shadows cast by the candles at the little shrine to Andraste and the faint moonlight playing across the bird cages. Varric had come to Merrill in search of trustworthy elves to watch the Rookery in turns, and Linian had volunteered quickly. It was a wecome distraction from waiting to hear if Emmen's condition had changed, if the Arcanist in the Undercroft had found any miracles yet.

Unfortunately, sitting alone in a dark Rookery was not as distracting from her worries as she'd expected. It was quiet except for the birds, dark, lonely.

Then a shadow flickered. Linian held her breath. Just a raven's wing? No - she thought not. Too far from the cages. Something - someone - moved in silence past the candlelit shrine. Approached the cages. Lowered one. Reached, and there was a rustle of wings, a startled increase in cawing, and then -

"Steady, shem," Linian said, firm and menacing and just a bit gleeful, the tip of her arrow against that someone's cloaked back. "A bit late for sending a message, isn't it?"

The cloaked back tensed. For a moment Linian thought the someone would answer, but they thought better of the risk and turned to run instead, bolting for the stair down into the library.

A  _twang_  near as silent as the mysterious visitor. A not so silent cry as the arrow met flesh. Linian called out, and footsteps rushed upstairs from the library, from the rotunda's first floor, converging on her position: other elves of the Daisy Patch, coming from their posts to assist. Linian  _tsked_  and teased them for having let the someone slip past their own positions.

"Nice shot, Linian," said the first one to reach her, Vel, a city elf with a knack for dirty knife work. He brought a torch with him, by light of which Linian saw that he was right. Her arrow had caught the someone in the shoulder, pinning that shoulder neatly to the post nearest the stairs while its owner struggled in vain to pull free. Linian approached, tugged at their visitor's hood. A woman's face was revealed, eyes wide with panic. And beneath the cloak, robes with a sunburst pattern.

"A sister!" Vel gasped. He'd come from an alienage in Jader, Linian recalled; most of the elves there had picked up Andrastianism from the shemlen, and the Dalish members of the Daisy Patch had long ago mostly given up trying to convert their vallaslin-less brethren back to the worship of the Creators.

"So what did you need a raven for in the middle of the night,  _holy_  woman?" Linian asked, setting a new arrow to her bow.

"Knife-ears," the woman growled. "My business does not concern you."

"I bet it concerns our friend Varric though," Linian mused. "Vel, search her. She was getting a raven out; she must have the message on her, ready to send. Corin," she said to a third elf who had joined them from his post in the painted rotunda, "tell Varric what we caught. Oh, and maybe tell the Inquisitor too."

* * *

 

Varric and Thayer stood looking in at the Chantry sister lying in the cell beneath Skyhold. She had struggled as the arrow was pulled from her shoulder and the wound tended, but she lay still and silent now, facing the wall.

"She's alive?" Thayer whispered.

"Plenty," Varric confirmed. "And kicks like one of those weird horses of yours, according to the Daisy Patch Kids."

"The what now?"

"Hey, you wanted the clan to be given work to do. Turns out some of them make really good spies or...something."

Thayer decided it was best not to ask. "What have you learned from her?"

"Found another threat-mail on her. Same style as the rest, no new information. Not clear where she was sending it, but my money's on the Divine again."

"In so many scenarios, a safe bet."

"She hasn't talked yet though. I'm sure if Nightingale were here she'd have some creative and noisy way of getting information out of her. I, however, have a much more efficient plan."

"Which is?"

"Oh look, here he is now." Varric gestured, and Thayer turned to see Cole approaching the cell. Between the dim lighting of the prison area and the brim of Cole's hat, he was a creature of shadow. A tall, hat-shaped shadow.

"I'm here," came the voice of the shadow. "Can I help, Varric?"

"That's the plan, Kid," said the dwarf. "You know that thing you do where you can tell what someone's thinking?"

Cole tilted his head back, making his nose almost visible. "Yes?"

"Well, we'd like to know if our friend in there is thinking anything about, say, why she wants to kill the Divine. Can you, uh, read her?"

"I'm listening," Cole said, stepping toward the bars of the cell. He stood silently for a minute, one hand lightly touching the bars, and then looked over his shoulder at Varric with a frown.

"Got anything, Kid?"

"Yes," Cole said, "but I don't understand it."

Thayer laughed. "Half of the things you say, Cole,  _I_  don't understand either."

"Half?" Varric grinned.

"Fine. Far more than half. Tell us anyway, Cole."

The boy bent his head again and spoke: "The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next. For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go toward Light. The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword." He looked back at the Inquisitor and shook his head. "That's all. She thinks that over and over and over. That's all."

Varric swore, but Thayer laughed again. "She  _would_  be thinking of the Chant of Light at a time like this. Can you blame her?"

"We already knew we were dealing with a fanatic," Varric sighed. "Nothing new here. Look, Kid, can you -"

They looked back at the cell to see that Cole was no longer leaning against the bars, but had moved inside the cell and was crouched over the woman on the narrow cot, reaching a hand out to comfort her. "Don't cry," Cole said. "They won't burn you."

The woman shuddered at his gentle touch, rolling over enough to look up at Cole in surprise. "What do you -" she finally asked.

"You thought of fire," Cole shrugged.

"I do not fear punishment," the sister snarled.

"Why?" he asked, eyes wide behind the fringes of his hair.

Her mouth clenched and it seemed she would say no more. Thayer and Varric exchanged a look. Just when Varric was about to go see what sorts of persuasion Leliana had left behind, the sister shuddered again and said quietly, "Because our cause is just. Someone has to stop  _her_  from letting all the mages walk free. Someone has to protect the Maker's children."

And that was the last she would say. Cole reported that her thoughts had returned to reciting the Chant, and the investigators withdrew to leave her to it, to pursue the inquiry further in the morning.

Many mornings and evenings later, though, they had still extracted nothing more from the stubborn sister than snatches of the Chant. To discover at least her name, Varric brought Mother Giselle down to have a look at her, and the gentle mother frowned when she saw the prisoner. "Sister Briane," she said. "She came to us not long ago. Soon after the Divine's coronation, in fact. She seemed a kind girl; I had her serving in the Chantry here and in the infirmary. I thought the Grand Cleric's sending her to us was a good sign, a peace offering."

"Oh?" Varric perked up. "And which Grand Cleric was that?"

"Victoire, of Morelle," said Giselle. "She opposed the Inquisition at first, but then she had opposed much that Divine Justinia did as well. I believed she would not have sent Briane to us unless she hoped for a reconciliation. I fear I have underestimated her."

"Mother dear," Varric beamed, "you don't know how happy I am to hear that.  _Names._  We have names now. Wait'll I get a message to Nightingale!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re: Grand Cleric Victoire - see Leliana's personal mission in DA:I...


	7. Wherein Hawkes fly to Val Royeaux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to get this [wedding] party on the road! To Val Royeaux. Because one of the perks of Leliana becoming Divine is that she can insist on officiating Josie's wedding to the Inquisitor! So, here is a chapter of mostly fluff, oh except for that cliffhanger at the end.

**Hawkquisition Part 3: Patchwork Families  
Chapter 7**

_Wherein Hawkes fly to Val Royeaux_

Lisbet Hawke hummed an idle tune as she packed for the trip to Val Royeaux. Maker, but there was so much more to pack when traveling with a baby! She remembered, more than ten years ago now, her family's flight to Kirkwall, with nothing but the clothes on their backs and the weapons they carried. And a whole lot of hope. Hope, or desperation. It hadn't been easy, reclaiming her family's place in the world, and they had lost so much along the way, but she would do it all again if it brought her here, to Fenris, to Malcolm. She smiled as she glanced over at her baby, being rocked now in Aunt Merrill's arms (okay, not  _officially_  Aunt Merrill - yet - but if Varric could call himself Malcolm's uncle, Merrill got the same privilege). Malcolm was fascinated with the elf's vallaslin, constantly reaching up to grab at her face. Merrill laughed, shifting him in her arms yet again when tiny fingers got too close. "Is that a lullaby, Hawke?" she asked to her friend's humming.

Hawke stopped, considering the tune she had been humming without realizing it. "I guess it is," she said. "Something Mother used to sing to the twins. I can't even remember the words now."

"You should teach me the tune. I like lullabies."

"Oh? Do you know Dalish lullabies, then?"

"Of course! Very pretty ones." And Merrill started singing something. Elvish words flew by on a haunting melody; Hawke recognized the word  _da'len_  a few times, but nothing more. Malcolm gazed up at Aunt Merrill and cooed.

"He's singing along," Hawke grinned when the song ended.

"He knows it's Elvish," Merrill preened, "and his elven side likes it."

Hawke chuckled. "No, Merrill, again, you may not raise my child to be Dalish. He doesn't even look elven. And his 'elven side' isn't even Dalish."

"He knows a good lullaby when he hears it, though. Don't you, da'len?" She started singing again, as Hawke returned to packing. It was unfortunate, from the perspective of a mother with a tiny newborn, that the Inquisitor couldn't just get married here at Skyhold. But after all, when the Divine insisted on officiating the wedding of one of her oldest friends (to her former employer) herself in the Grand Cathedral, one could hardly refuse. Josephine was certainly looking forward to seeing Val Royeaux and Leliana again. Hawke, who had heard Josie's stories of her misspent youth with Leliana in Orlais, wondered if being Divine would prevent Sister Nightingale from getting Josephine into that sort of mischief again, one last time before the Lady Ambassador settled down as a married woman. Leliana didn't seem the sort to let becoming the head of a major religion stop her from mischief. Hawke looked forward to being there to see it. So much so, she had been pouring healing magic into her womb, delicate as it was after Malcolm's birth, every day in hopes of shortening her need for bed rest so that she would not miss out on the wedding. It had worked, but now she faced the prospect of a week on horseback with an infant barely a month old.

Oh, well. At least she was fully recovered and ready for the rigors of the road herself. As for Malcolm? It would be character-building, she decided. Any child of herself and Fenris was unlikely to spend much time in the nest, after all; this one's adventures could just start rather early.

* * *

The wedding party set out at last (rather early in the morning indeed, especially since a colicky Malcolm had kept Hawke and Fenris awake most of the night), nearly emptying the stables of Skyhold as the bride and groom rode out, followed by the Inquisitor's advisors and inner circle. Hawke and Fenris, Carver and Merrill all had places in that circle now, to Varric's delight; and at the dwarf's recommendation, several Daisy Patch elves rode along to assist with his inquiries. Malcolm snuggled against his mother's chest (sleeping perfectly soundly now, of course) in a leather sling that Harritt had devised so that Hawke could carry him safely on horseback. And so they rode, the horses as well as many of the riders bedecked in red and gold streamers to mark the occasion, bright and bold and merry against the snow as the caravan moved down from the gates of Skyhold.

It was a week's long ride to Val Royeaux, and that might have dulled the colors of those banners and their spirits by the time they arrived, had not the Lady Ambassador arranged to make the whole journey into a sort of festival. Skyhold's minstrel-in-residence, Maryden Halewell, sang as they rode, and sometimes recited poetry (she was still working on her epic retelling of the Herald of Andraste's rise, but she knew many good tales of other heroes and lovers past). When Maryden rested her voice, Varric filled the space with his outrageous tales. In the evenings when they made camp, the Iron Bull and the Chargers who had accompanied the group organized wrestling matches and hunting contests, keeping the restless riders both exercised and well fed. Games of Wicked Grace by the campfire lasted well into each night, and by day, roads that the Inquisition forces kept clear of trouble allowed the travelers to enjoy each other's company and conversation without worry.

And amidst it all, Lisbet Hawke rode and held her baby and nursed her baby and knew the oddest contentment. She had always been a woman with ambitions - for herself and for her family - and she knew that she would devote plenty of worry soon to Malcolm's future, his upbringing, whether he would bear the burden of magic or suffer for his parents' past adventures. But for now, when he cooed and reached for her with tiny fingers, when those watery blue eyes tried to focus on her face, she could think of nothing but that perfect moment.

Of course, the weeks-old baby was still getting used to the concept of day and night and how they related to sleeping. Hours on horseback during the day struck him as a perfect time for a nap, so inevitably he woke well-rested several times each night, ready for a very early breakfast or a diaper change or just to  _play_.

Hawke stirred when his urgent cries woke her for the second time one night, midway through the journey. They had reached the Imperial Highway by now and had the luxury of an inn (the whole inn, in fact, hired out to the Inquisition, and every room filled with the Inquisitor's caravan), with a cradle the innkeeper had proudly produced when he saw the baby in Hawke's arms. Malcolm, having grown accustomed to passing the nights sandwiched between his mother and father in their tent, was not so pleased with tonight's separate accommodations and was sleeping even lighter than usual. Hawke sighed, but Fenris murmured in her ear as he rose from the bed: "Sleep, Hawke. I have him."

She stayed awake, though, turning to watch with one eye open as Fenris gathered the child up in his arms. He moved to the window, where moonlight illuminated his unruly hair and the almost shy smile with which he regarded his son. Malcolm went on fussing, though with his father holding him, his cries lost their dramatic urgency. Hawke watched as Fenris checked the baby's diaper, rocked him, murmured to him in what she suspected was Tevene (though why that would be any more successful in calming a child, she couldn't imagine), and finally brushed a finger across the baby's cheek. Malcolm quickly turned his head to follow. "He's hungry," Hawke interpreted.

Fenris sighed and brought the baby back to her. "One thing I cannot help with."

"Just wait till he starts eating solids," she teased as she put the baby to her breast. "You're in charge then."

He settled in beside her, watching the baby, holding out a finger for the tiny fist to close upon. "Fine, but by then I presume he will sleep the nights through."

"I have my doubts. I think our eyas is a night owl, actually..."

By the time Malcolm had had his fill, Lisbet was half asleep again herself. So Fenris lifted the now drowsy and content child from her arms, careful not to disturb either of them, and retuned him to his cradle. For some time after, he stood there, gazing down on the child, lost in thought.

* * *

On the eighth day, they reached Val Royeaux. The Grand Cathedral resounded with the Chant of Light as the wedding party arrived. A woman in Chantry robes greeted them in the plaza outside the cathedral. "Inquisitor. Lady Montilyet." She inclined her head with a serene smile. "I am Sister Virela. Most Holy has asked that I see you to the chambers prepared for you and your companions."

They made to follow her, but not before Merrill exclaimed: "But - you're an elf!"

Sister Virela glanced back, still smiling. "Yes."

"I'm sorry, perhaps it's rude of me to say," Merrill went on. "But I've never seen an elf priest before!"

Virela laughed softly. "No, of course not. I am the first. Most Holy officially opened the priesthood to non-humans soon after she ascended to the Sunburst Throne. There were five of us from the Val Royeaux alienage who entered holy orders at that time, and I am the first of us to complete the initiation period."

Merrill looked horrified at the spectacle of an elf willingly devoting herself to the human religion. Before she could say anything truly unfortunate, Hawke stepped in. "Congratulations, Sister Virela. That is quite an accomplishment. You honor us with your hospitality."

"Oh, quite the contrary!" Virela blushed. "I am honored that the Divine entrusted this task to me. After all, I am the newest and least of the Sisters here. Truthfully, I think she gives me such tasks to make a statement.," she confided as they moved into the shade of the Cathedral's entryway. "She will not take half-measures. Non-humans who wish to serve in the Chantry are not treated as less than equals to the humans."

Varric snorted, exchanging a look with Merrill, and muttered, "Good luck with that…"

Sister Virela showed each of the guests to chambers prepared for them in the Grand Cathedral's residential wing. A few hours passed, giving them a chance to wash the dust of the road away, before servants came to summon them to dinner with the Divine. It was not that different from dinner at Skyhold, really, for the long table was filled with companions tried and true, whose friendship had grown in the heat of battle over the years. Hawke recognized such a bond between the Inquisitor and his inner circle as that which made her companions who had followed her to Skyhold dear to her: they had been through ridiculous amounts of trouble together, and had made one another's causes their own. The weeks since the Daisy Patch joined the Inquisition had allowed the two groups - Hawke's companions, Thayer's companions - to begin to extend those bonds to one another. She was pleased to see Carver chatting with Cassandra about some combat move she had shown him in camp one night; Merrill was asking Cole rapid-fire questions about spirits; the Iron Bull was making Fenris smirk and Dorian glower by recounting tales of magisters he'd fought against.

And then the calm was broken. Near the end of the meal, Sister Virela, pale and wide-eyed, approached the Divine and begged leave to speak.

"Of course. What's wrong, Virela?" Leliana asked, rising from her chair at the head of the table when she saw the fear in the elven initiate's eyes.

"Oh Most Holy," Virela spoke in a strained voice, "there's been... Someone has...In the Galatean Chapel."

"Speak plainly, dear," Leliana encouraged the elf. "What has happened in the Galatean Chapel?"

Sister Virela wrung her hands and glanced at the group gathered around the dinner table before replying in a whisper, " _Murder._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note:  
> Merrill’s lullaby is inspired by the Dalish lullaby “Mir Da’Len Somniar”, found in World of Thedas: Volume 2, and by the beautiful arrangement of it done by hunterlavellan found at http://hunterlavellan.tumblr.com/post/118197800585/this-was-so-hard-to-write-because-i-had-this


	8. Wherein the Divine investigates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murder in the Grand Cathedral!

**Hawkquisition Part 3: Patchwork Families  
Chapter 8**

_Wherein the Divine investigates_

Of course they all rose at once to follow the Divine to the Galatean Chapel, but Leliana raised a hand. "Stay. Finish this meal in peace. I won't have the whole lot of you trampling through whatever evidence there may be."

"Leliana…" Thayer raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms.

"Fine," she sighed. "Inquisitor, come with me. And Varric, you'd better come too. This might be...relevant to your investigation. The rest of you, I will send for you if you are needed."

The dwarf beamed at her as he grabbed his crossbow from the back of his chair. "You got it, Nightingale." Varric gave Hawke a wink as he followed Thayer and Leliana out of the dining room. Hawke met Fenris' eyes and grinned, fastened Malcolm in his sling over her shoulders, picked up her staff and quietly hurried after them. Fenris sighed and followed silently.

They had almost reached the chapel by the time Malcolm let out a whimpering cry, alerting Leliana to the extra followers. The Divine glared at Varric. "It seems, Master Tethras, you're being followed."

"What can I say?" Varric spread his hands with a satisfied grin. "Happens everywhere I go. The perils of being famous. Something you'll get used to soon enough yourself, Nightingale, with that fancy hat you're wearing now."

Leliana huffed and turned back toward the chapel. "Fine. The Champion's skills might be of use anyway. Just behave yourselves, all of you. This is a holy place."

"Someone being murdered doesn't  _de_ consecrate it?" Varric asked as they passed through an enormous gilt-covered doorway into a square room covered in faded murals. Leliana glared at him and followed Sister Virela toward the altar at the far end. "Just for the record, Nightingale," the dwarf continued, "you did get my message about the spy we caught?"

"Yes. Thank you, Varric. I have Victoire under surveillance."

Thayer pointed out, "She may not actually be connected to whatever happened here today, you know."

"Or," said Leliana, "she may have set events in motion before we got to her. We have evidence that the threats originated with her. It would be coincidence indeed if the first actual  _move_  were not part of her game, too."

"Then I'd really like to know," Varric said, "what  _else_  she's already set in motion."

"Oh, so would I," Leliana murmured as they came to the altar. Three shallow steps led up to it, and sprawled over them, one arm flung out as if to grasp the altar itself for refuge, lay the corpse. They all fixed grim gazes on the body, taking in the way one leg twisted under it  _(a struggle?)_ , the blood stains  _(pooled beneath the body, appearing to originate from a cut throat where he lay face down, but also from wounds to the chest. Multiple attackers?)_ , the torn robe. A mage's garb. Hawke was the first to point out the staff, broken in two pieces, rolled aside to the corner of the stairs.

"Sister Virela," Leliana asked gently, as Thayer rolled the body over to confirm that the man's throat had indeed been cut, "were you the one to find him here?"

"Yes, Most Holy," the elven priest whispered. "I - I was to change the candles here today, but when I saw him…"

"Did you see anyone else?" Varric asked. "Leaving? Entering?"

"No, messere," she shuddered.

"Yet this was recently done," Leliana noted, tapping a finger to the still-wet bloodstain on the stairs.

"So the killer is likely still in the Cathedral somewhere," Thayer concluded.

"Inquisitor…" Leliana looked at him.

"I'll set my people patrolling," Thayer nodded.

"I'm sorry, Inquisitor," Leliana frowned. "You're here to celebrate your wedding. You shouldn't have to trouble yourself with this. But…"

"But the Templars aren't quite what they used to be," Thayer grinned. "It's all right, Leliana. I don't mind making myself useful."

While he was jogging back toward the dining room to organize the search, Hawke scrutinized the room, sending out tendrils of her own magic, in search of traces of another's spells. "Look," she pointed out finally, approaching a singed spot on the tiles closer to the door. "A fire spell."

"He put up some sort of fight, then," Fenris said, stalking nearer to the door. Since Thayer's suggestion that the killer was still in the building, he'd had his sword held ready, eyes alert, staying close to Hawke and Malcolm.

"Not much of one," Varric shook his head.

"Hawke…" Fenris called her attention to the door. She looked up to see him plucking out a knife that had been embedded in the gilded wood, pinning a scrap of parchment to the side of the door facing into the room.

"A note?" Hawke guessed, holding Malcolm close as she approached.

Fenris unrolled the parchment and read, his voice growing more and more bitter with each word: "Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond."

"From the Canticle of Transfigurations," Sister Virela gasped.

"There's more," said Fenris, turning the parchment sideways. "In the margin.  _You should have stayed in your Circle._ " He looked up at the Divine, who paled as she took the scrap from him.

"This looks as if it were torn directly from a copy of the Chant," she guessed. "I suppose...if we could find the book missing that page, it might be a clue…"

Hawke gently took the note from the Divine's hand when her eyes stopped focusing on it. "Did you know this mage, Leliana?" she asked.

"The victim?" Leliana turned to look at him again. "I...yes. I did. He is - was - an emissary from the College of Enchanters."

Hawke's eyes narrowed. "Fiona's new version of the Circle?"

Leliana barked out a short laugh. "Oh, it is to be nothing like the Circle. At least, that is the intent. That is why emissaries have been going back and forth between us. We hope to establish an alliance, rather than keep the mages under Chantry control. I  _ended_  the Circle so that the Chantry can no longer oppress the mages as we have long done. Fiona reformed the College of Enchanters as a way for the mages to govern themselves."

"So you can repeat the failures of Tevinter," Fenris growled.

"Perhaps they will!" Leliana shouted. "But at least we will allow the mages to pursue success or failure themselves, rather than being forced to serve in the Chantry's failures."

"You do not know what you -" Fenris began, when a polite cough from Hawke and the beginning of a whimper from Malcolm interrupted the swelling argument.

"If we could return to the matter at hand?" Hawke said sweetly, gesturing with her staff toward the cooling corpse. "I don't think the baby likes all this shouting."

Fenris' eyes widened and then fell; he looked back to the note in Hawke's hand for a moment before speaking. "I - do not trust mages as a whole, Leliana. But I trust Hawke. And if this killer is targeting mages, then let us deal with this quickly. I want my wife safe." To Hawke's wide-eyed glance and Varric's knowing smirk, he sighed and added: "And of course she'll be in the thick of things, so  _let us deal with this quickly._  Before my son is old enough to toddle into battle after her, since he's clearly going to grow up accustomed to being in the thick of it with her!"

Leliana sighed and nodded. "I'm sorry. It's just that I have had this argument so, so many times, with so many people. Believe me, Fenris, we have taken Tevinter's history to heart. Fiona and I have had many discussions about avoiding all the possible ways this could go wrong. But it is not possible to go on as we were before the war, to return to the Circle of Magi as we knew it then. That system has failed. I  _will_  change things, no matter  _who_  objects. It must be done."

"Someone," Hawke gestured with the note, "would say the same thing about stopping your changes. They object rather...violently."

"If they think they can scare me into backing down," the Divine's pale eyes narrowed as she took the note back from Hawke and strode from the chapel, "they had best be prepared for a  _fight_."

Exchanging a worried glance, Hawke and Fenris followed her from the room. Varric waved Sister Virela ahead of him with a little courtly bow, glancing around the scene of the murder one last time before following them himself.

* * *

 

"Vanished without a trace." Thayer summed up the findings of the search with a frown when they gathered again, late that night, in the Divine's personal study. Fenris had finally dragged Hawke away to put the baby to bed, when Malcolm grew too fussy for any more investigating, so it was only the Inquisitor, the Divine, and the sleuthing dwarf meeting for this progress report.

"Nothing at all?" Leliana was incredulous. "No trail of blood, no discarded weapon, no…"

"No fanatical killer hiding in the closets, either, so at least we can sleep easy," Varric added. "Sort of. I mean, they got in once, they could come back. I wouldn't recommend a  _really_  deep sleep at this point."

Leliana sighed. "I'll double the guard, such as it is. We lost so many Templars to Corypheus, on top of those who broke with the Chantry to hunt down rebel mages. So few have come back to us."

"The Iron Bull's volunteered his Chargers to round out the patrols tonight," Thayer offered.

"Daisy Patch, too," Varric said. "Got some real promising agents there. Linian jumped at the chance. I think she's hoping she can single-handedly catch this suspect, like she did Sister Briane."

"Tell them all to be careful," Leliana insisted. "I don't like how easily they got to that mage. Grand Cleric Victoire may be behind it, or not, but this murder...I'm sure they've hired professionals."

Just then, Sister Virela appeared at the door, looking flustered. "Your Perfection?" she addressed the Divine. "There's a...man...an  _elf_  here, asking to see you. He says it's about Morelle?"

"Ah yes," Leliana turned to the door with a smirk. "Send him in, Sister Virela." She glanced back to the Inquisitor and Varric. "Which is why  _I've_  hired a professional."

"You always were a practical girl," laughed the alleged professional at the door, with a lilting accent that reminded the Inquisitor of Josephine's. "And may I say, Leliana, you do look  _divinely_  lovely in that new hat."

"Zevran," Leliana greeted him with a long-suffering sigh, but her smile as she gathered the assassin into a quick hug was genuine. "Inquisitor, this is Zevran Arainai, formerly of the Crows - you'll remember we employed him once on the Inquisition's behalf. Zev, the Inquisitor, Lord Thayer Trevelyan, and our ally Varric Tethras. So good of you to answer my call, Zev."

"One does not tell the Divine  _no_ , I presume," Zevran chuckled. "At least, not when she pays as well as you do."

"Just make sure you're worth the price," Leliana answered, arching an eyebrow.

"Oh, I am  _always_  worth the price, my dear," he said with a feral grin. "Anyway, I'm here to report results, so see for yourself. My men have taken custody of that cousin of the Grand Cleric's, and I have...informed her of this detail. She was, sadly, not at all grateful for our hospitality. But she is on her way here now, as you wished."

"Good," Leliana said. "Let us see what she has to say for herself in person."

"I maintain that it would be simpler if you just let me assassinate her, Leliana."

She fixed a glare with all the weight of the Chantry behind it on the elf, but he smiled back, unbowed. "Not. Yet," she finally hissed. "In the last resort, believe me, I will not hesitate to cut her down. But this game she is playing is still too well hidden. I will not make a martyr of her and risk strengthening whatever rebellion she has working in the shadows now."

"Then I must return to those shadows," he said with a slight bow, "to smoke out this rebellion, no?"

"She almost certainly has involved assassins of her own," Leliana warned him. "A mage was murdered today, here in the Grand Cathedral."

Zevran nodded. "You think she wll strike again."

"We should expect it. He was not the only mage to visit here. I've sent word to Fiona to keep her people within the White Spire until this is resolved, but -"

"But," Thayer observed, "you can hardly  _order_  them to stay away, after you've freed them from Chantry control and all."

"There is that," Leliana nodded.

"Protect the mages," Zevran tipped an imaginary hat. "On it." And he withdrew from the study as silently as he had arrived.

* * *

 

Malcolm had had an exciting day, and Lisbet Hawke couldn't blame him if he wasn't ready to sleep. She was still quite on edge herself. So was Fenris, from the way he was pacing and fuming as Hawke rocked the fussy baby, trying to get him to sleep.

"This Divine," Fenris said, not for the first time that night, "is a fool if she thinks mages left unchecked will do no harm."

"You're probably right," Hawke said calmly, shifting Malcolm to her other arm.

"I...I'm right?" Fenris looked surprised. "I...wasn't expecting you to agree with me, Hawke. You are the exception, after all. If all mages were as you are, the Divine's plan might actually work."

"Would it? I wonder." She sighed at the still crying baby and handed him over to his father. "Here. You take a turn. Maybe you can get him to sleep." Fenris resumed his pacing, but more slowly, cradling the baby in his arms and trying futilely to quiet him. Hawke continued, "Magic  _is_  dangerous. We both know it, and so does the Divine. You say I'm an exception, but I've made plenty of mistakes myself, only I've been fortunate in my protectors." He cocked his head in a question. She explained: "My father. You. Sometimes even Carver. That's what a mage really needs, you see: someone whose judgment we can rely on if we're tempted to go too far. In a sense, that's what the Templar Order was for, but that never seemed to work as it should. My father, being an apostate himself and having seen what could go wrong even within a Circle, he taught me restraint. Sometimes I wished I could have trained in a Circle, safe from all the risks of magic, but you know what? My father protected me from the risks by making me strong. He knew I'd never have the luxury of working magic openly, with Templars to protect me or protect innocents  _from_  me if I faltered. So he taught me self-control."

"A lesson," Fenris observed, tracing a finger along Malcolm's nose and then letting the child grip it in his tiny fist, "that most mages never come by."

"I don't know. I think the Circles at least tried to teach it, but it's not the same as being an apostate and living constantly on your guard. But what happens now to a child who's born with magic and doesn't have an apostate father to train them to be strong?  _That's_  dangerous. The Circles would have claimed them, taken them away to be trained, and that was harsh, terrible for the families. But a child with no one to train them…"

"I suppose," Fenris said into the sudden quiet; as Hawke had trailed off, even Malcolm had grown still; "that the Divine intends for the College of Enchanters to fill that role?"

"I hope so," said Hawke. "Templars were never the best solution. Too corruptible. I suppose so are mages themselves, of course. There is no perfect system here. But maybe...well, what if a parent didn't have to give their child up entirely to a far-away Circle when his magic first manifested? If mages came from the College of Enchanters to train children wherever they found them, so that they needn't break all bonds, and their families needn't fear their power? Maybe, someday, people would forget that they ever  _feared_  magic, and treat mages as actual  _people_ …"

"They should not," said Fenris, "forget entirely their fear of magic. At least leave them with a healthy respect of the danger."

Hawke laughed. "Of course! Make that part of the basic training. But imagine it? If every child with magic could be trained as I was trained, more or less...even Malcolm, if he turns out to…" She raised an eyebrow as she looked down at the sleeping child.  _Sleeping._  "How  _do_  you do that?" she asked her husband.

Fenris answered with a shrug made awkward by the necessity of not disturbing the child in his arms. "He is...sucking on my finger now. Maybe that calms him?"

"So will he wake up if you put him in the cradle?"

Fenris cast a horrified glance from her to the baby and back. Carefully he stepped over to the cradle, but the whimpers Malcolm made when Fenris tried to pull his finger away caused both parents to freeze on the spot. So it was that the baby Hawke passed the rest of the night once again, as he had loved to be in camp, sandwiched between his parents in their bed.


	9. Wherein a murderer is interrupted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An assassin strikes again at the Grand Cathedral, but the Daisy Patch intervenes...

**Hawkquisition Part 3: Patchwork Families  
Chapter 9**

_Wherein a murderer is interrupted_

The Montilyet family arrived for the wedding after breakfast the next day. The Trevelyans were not due to arrive till evening, so Thayer availed himself of the opportunity to become better acquainted with his soon to be inlaws. Josephine’s sister Yvette had already bonded with the Inquisitor over their shared love of teasing Josie, when they met at the Winter Palace. Josephine, all too well aware of this, permitted five minutes of Thayer coaxing “When Josie was a girl” stories out of her little sister with that twinkle in his eye before she shooed him off to discuss “more important matters” with her father and brothers, so that she could instruct her sister in her role as bridesmaid.

Josephine’s parents had been horrified at first when Lord Otranto informed them that he was breaking off the betrothal they had arranged between him and Josephine. It had taken the defeat of Corypheus, really, to convince Yves Montilyet that this upstart Inquisitor from some Free Marcher family that didn’t even do business in Antiva could be an acceptable substitute for the match he had made for his daughter. Yvette liked him, but then Yvette liked a great many silly things.

Thayer’s attempts to charm his father-in-law were cut short, however, when a young elf in Inquisition leathers burst into the courtyard where he sat with the Montilyets.

“Inquisitor! Sir! I’m glad I found you,” the elf gasped between panting breaths.

“Maker’s breath, man, what’s going on?” Thayer stood and laid a hand on the elf’s shoulder, squinting slightly as he tried to remember his name. “You’re one of Merrill’s people, aren’t you? Is it...Corin?”

“Yessir,” Corin smiled, eyes wide, at being recognized. “I came -- Linian sent me --”

“Take a breath, son. What’s happened?”

Corin glanced at the Montilyets and then back the way he had run. “Can I explain on the way, sir? We need to hurry and catch them. It’s…” he swallowed. “There’s been another attack.”

“What?” Thayer grabbed him. “Where? Who?”

“It’s Sister Virela, sir. One of us, Ina, she wanted to talk to the sister about becoming a priest, but when we got to her room, there was a man standing over her with a knife. Linian and Vel are chasing him. They sent me to find you. Ina stayed to help Virela but there was so much blood, and Ina’s no healer. Hurry!”

Thayer turned to his not-quite-yet brothers-in-law. “Antoine,” he ordered, “find the Divine. Laurien, find Varric. Or Hawke. Or...well, anyone who came with me, if you can’t find them. Send them to Sister Virela’s room. Sorry to cut our meeting short, sir,” he nodded to Lord Montilyet. “Corin? Lead on.”

* * *

For a moment after Thayer had gone, Antoine and Laurien stood exchanging a blank look.

“The Divine,” Antoine repeated. “I’m not really sure what she looks like.”

Laurien scratched his head. “She’d wear a big hat, right? She should be easier to find than this Hawke or Varric, at least.”

Lord Montilyet sighed and cuffed both his sons’ ears, gently enough. “Idiots. You know who will know exactly where to find them all. Go ask your sister.”

* * *

Josephine, once alerted by her hapless brothers to the emergency, wasted no time in rallying the troops. Hawke and Fenris were in their room; she sent them to check on Sister Virela, in case it was not too late for Hawke’s healing spells. Summoning the nearest priest -- an older woman in the Chantry robes was walking down the hall just in time -- was of course the quickest way to get a message to the Divine. By the time Josephine rendezvoused with Leliana herself, she had also commandeered a handful of Daisy Patch elves to carry messages to the rest of the Inquisition agents present at the Grand Cathedral. No one was sure yet just  _where_ Linian and Vel had chased the assassin to, so Josephine instructed them to begin at Sister Virela’s rooms and spread out from there.

As for the Divine, she let them search; she herself went straight to the scene of the crime, with Josephine on her heels. Fenris was guarding the door. He nodded at the women and let them pass. Hawke was kneeling by the elven priest’s body, holding Malcolm in his sling while she summoned her healing magic. A tiny slip of an elf girl, presumably Ina, held a bandage to Virela’s wounds while Hawke worked.

“Sister Virela,” Leliana cried out, dropping to a knee beside Hawke. “Is she…?”

Fenris spoke for Hawke, whose eyes were squeezed tightly shut in concentration. “There were...several stab wounds,” he explained quietly. “Hawke has been dealing with those. It seems the assassin was interrupted before he could finish the job. None of the wounds were immediately fatal, but she has lost a lot of blood.”

Leliana reached for the elven priest’s hand, holding it limp in her own. “I’m so sorry, Virela,” she whispered. “This is all my fault.”

“Leliana!” Josephine snapped. “You cannot blame yourself. We are dealing with fanatics, sending assassins to derail your policies.”

“ _My_ policies,” Leliana frowned. “Virela is the firstfruits of my policies. The first nonhuman to enter the priesthood. I favored her, Josie. Not just because she is an elf proving that the Maker does not restrict His calling to humans, but because she is an exceptional woman. She would have made such a good Sister. A Revered Mother, before long, perhaps even a Grand Cleric, and all on her own merit, not just for me to prove a point.”

“She _will_ ,” Josephine insisted. “She’s not dead yet. Er...is she, Hawke?” They both looked to the mage in doubt and hope.

Hawke took a deep, shuddering breath before opening her eyes. “I think...I’ve done all I can. I don’t know if it’s enough.” They looked at Virela, waiting for her to open her eyes, but she lay still.

“She still breathes,” Fenris pointed out.

“For how long?” Leliana turned away, standing deep in thought while the others carefully transferred the wounded elf to her bed and arranged her as comfortably as possible.

“It is not your fault,” Josephine reminded the Divine again, rejoining her at the door.

Leliana pulled out a crumpled scrap of paper and showed it to her friend. “The first of these that I received.”

Josephine read over the note, recognizing the sort of threat they had been receiving ever since Leliana was named Divine Victoria. “We’ve seen similar threats at Skyhold. I...I admit, I did not expect it to come to bloodshed so suddenly. Poor Sister Virela…”

“The last line,” Leliana pointed out. “‘ _If you will not yield to a true Divine, we’ll see how well “Victoria” can protect one she loves.’_ If I had not shown Virela such favor, perhaps they would have left her alone.”

“And perhaps they only attacked her because she _is_ the first nonhuman to enter the priesthood. This is a political statement, of the crudest kind.” Josephine frowned at her friend. “If you let this change your policies, they win. You know that.”

“Of course,” Leliana looked at her in surprise. “I certainly don’t intend to back down. But still I’m wondering: Who will they attack next?”

Then footsteps echoed far down the hall, running their way. Fenris gripped his sword and stepped out into the hall, standing ready to defend those within. But when the runner rounded the corner, he lowered his weapon and arched an eyebrow. “Corin?” he greeted the elf hurrying toward Sister Virela’s door. Ina looked up at her friend’s name, eyes wide.

“Came to...tell everyone…” Corin gasped out.

“Catch your breath first,” Leliana smiled. Corin blushed to the tips of his ears at being addressed by the Divine, but he nodded, took a very deep breath, and tried again.

“The assassin,” he reported. “Linian and Vel cornered him, top of the east bell tower. Inquisitor and I caught up with them. He sent me to get more help.”

“Thayer!” Josephine cried out. “Please don’t tell me he intends to take on this assassin himself.”

“He’s not by himself,” Corin reminded her. “Vel and Linian are helping.”

The Divine’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “It would be best if this assassin can be taken alive,” she said. “I assume the Inquisitor will remember that.”

“Let’s go remind him,” Hawke said, adjusting the baby in his sling and picking up her staff. “Corin, find the others and tell them what’s going on. Ina, keep an eye on Sister Virela in case she wakes up. We’ll go help Thayer.”

“Hawke!” Fenris objected. “You’re exhausted from healing. _And_ you are carrying the baby.”

“Yes, well, me carrying him works better than you carrying him,” she countered, flourishing her staff at her husband one-handed as she took off down the hall. “You need both hands for that sword.”

Josephine exchanged a look with the Divine as they watched the two disappear around a corner, still arguing. “Do you think,” Josie mused, “we might recommend a good babysitter?”

“I leave it to you, Josie, to find a way to do so _diplomatically_ ,” Leliana grinned. “There are some matters in which even I refuse to interfere.”

* * *

The assassin had only one knife left. Thayer had both of his, and that ought to be an advantage. Vel had taken a nasty cut to his leg before Corin and the Inquisitor had arrived, and Linian was standing over him with an arrow trained on the assassin, giving Thayer the chance to sneak up behind the man. He’d managed to disarm the assassin then, but of course the man had a spare knife hidden somewhere and he’d whirled to meet the new threat. He really seemed to like whirling, this one. He was whirling all over the bloody tower, keeping Thayer in his sights. At least it really was his last knife, Thayer assumed, since he hadn’t found any others to throw at the Inquisitor. Thayer was looking for a chance to knock this last knife away too, to take the man alive, but he wasn’t getting much of an opening, and the speed with which they danced across the tower wasn’t giving Linian a chance at a clear shot either. Thayer raised his left hand to flick blood away from the cut the assassin had left on his cheek in the last pass, then lashed out again with his right hand knife, but the assassin evaded the blow again. At least, Thayer thought, he was evading it  _slower_ than at first. But then, Thayer was probably attacking a little slower at this point too. He just had to hold on, keep the man fighting and keep him  _alive_ , blight it (and preferably keep himself alive too) till help arrived. Assuming Corin had found anyone…

Then, just as the assassin darted in, aiming a blow at Thayer’s side, a blast of cold air swirled around them and the man froze in place. Literally froze. Thayer realized after a second that he himself was only _figuratively_ frozen out of mere surprise, so he reached out and tapped a finger against the assassin’s suddenly stiffened arm. Cold as ice. He glanced over the man’s shoulder and grinned from ear to ear when he saw Hawke striding forward, staff in hand, baby strapped to her chest, Fenris one step behind.

“Just in time,” Thayer greeted them.

“You’re bleeding,” Hawke observed.

“No, I’m not.”

She stared him down.

“I’m quite sure I’m not,” he flashed her a smile, even as he flicked blood from his cheek again, and tilted his head toward the Daisy Patch elves behind him. “But Vel definitely is. Leg wound, might actually be life threatening. Deal with that first, will you? Fenris and I need to see about getting this, er, well-preserved assassin into a cell before he thaws.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took longer than I intended...I had an idea for a subplot with Vivienne and it just wasn’t working out. So I scrapped it and went on with the assassin-hunting! Better this way, I’m sure. Especially since we’re already on chapter 9 and that subplot would’ve taken at least a couple more chapters on its own...I just have too much going on in this part of the Hawkquisition series, ha! But now we’re nearing the end. One or two more chapters should conclude things. At least so says my delusion...


	10. Wherein the Divine protects one she loves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That grudge Divine Cleric Victoire has about Leliana's holding her cousin hostage back in the Inquisition days? Leliana's friends will pay the price. But not to worry, Hawke and Trevelyan and Zevran and Fenris to the rescue...

**Hawkquisition Part 3: Patchwork Families  
Chapter 10**

_Wherein the Divine protects one she loves_

It was too quiet for a wedding day. Certainly the cathedral had been strewn with flowers, candles flamed bright as day, and the halls were full of guests come to celebrate. But it was so _quiet_. Hawke frowned at the silence as she made her way to Josephine’s room. It was only natural, she realized, for people to be subdued after two assassination attempts, one of them successful, had interrupted the wedding party’s visit to the Grand Cathedral. But the assassin was safely behind bars now, the morning had dawned fair and bright, and the bride and groom deserved a day of happiness unshadowed by fear.

Even Malcolm was quiet this morning, but at least that had nothing to do with the anxiety permeating the Grand Cathedral. He was watching her with calm and curious eyes as she carried him, and Hawke smiled and cooed at him as they reached their destination.

Yvette answered the door and fairly bounced when she saw Hawke. “Oh! Lady Hawke! Hurry, come in, there is so much to do! The dresses just arrived, and Josephine’s hair simply _will not_ cooperate -- oh, and if we are ready in time I want to sketch her in her wedding dress! Come in, come in, ooooh, may I hold the baby?”

And behind that door, at least, there was none of the unnatural quiet and all of the giggling and joyous chatter that there ought to be -- most of it Yvette’s, of course. Hawke managed somehow to talk Josephine’s little sister into waiting until they were finished dressing for the ceremony before holding the baby, and Yvette merrily went to work on the newly arrived bridesmaid.

* * *

 

The scent of lavender and something else floral teased at Grand Cleric Victoire’s nostrils as she followed the Divine’s seneschal through the halls of the Grand Cathedral. She had known this day would come, that she must confront the upstart Divine soon before her policies could do any more damage. She had just not expected it to smell so of flowers. It was mainly in the sanctuary itself, decked out for a wedding, that the flowers had been gathered, but there were so many of them that the odors followed her all the way to the Divine’s audience chamber.

It was not nearly so bright in the audience chamber, though, without the hundreds of candles that burned in the sanctuary. Heavy drapes covered the windows with their famous Serault stained glass. There was only the light of the Eternal Brazier, flickering against the throne and the statue of Andraste overshadowing it. Victoire waited, shifting from one foot to the other as she grew stiff with standing, until finally Divine Victoria made her entrance from the shadows at the back of the room. Priests of every rank accompanied her; Victoire bristled to see that even two of the elven acolytes were among their number. And as the Divine took her seat on the Sunburst Throne, Victoire caught sight of another elf standing in the shadows just steps away from the throne, cloaked in black, watching her intently with the firelight glinting in his eyes and a most insolent sort of grin.

Then the Divine spoke, drawing all attention to herself. “Grand Cleric Victoire. So good of you to grace us with your presence.”

“ _Most_ Holy,” Victoire bit out, “far be it from me to refuse such an invitation.”

“I do wonder, Grand Cleric,” said the Divine, “what exactly _is_ far from you these days. Your opposition to Justinia’s policies, and to the Inquisition, was clear enough, but I had hoped this could be a matter for civilized discussion. Now it seems you have left civility behind.”

Victoire drew herself up. “I do not know what you are speaking of, Your Perfection. It is for civil discussion that I have come. These changes you intend to make: it is not too late to think better of them. To protect the innocent from mages. To keep the Chantry pure. You cannot think that --”

“What I _think_ ,” the Divine interrupted, “is that I will have no more innocents die for your cause. If you seek a fight with me, you shall have it. But let us not continue to pretend that _your_ hands are clean of the blood that was shed in this most holy place.”

“Your Perfection! I...I do not know what you --”

“The assassin you sent is in our custody now,” Leliana said. “It is only a matter of time till he confirms your involvement. Or perhaps you have your own explanation prepared?”

The silence stretched out between them, punctuated by firelight, until at last the Grand Cleric squared her shoulders and faced the Divine with eyes no longer trying to conceal her rage. “You think,” she said, “that you have muzzled me by holding my cousin hostage.”

“Ah, dear Lord Firmin,” Leliana mused, glancing at the elf standing near her throne. “He is well, I trust?”

“The very picture of health, my dear,” the elf replied with a slight bow.

Leliana returned her gaze to the Grand Cleric. “More than can be said for the priest your assassin attacked yesterday, or the mage killed in the chapel the day before that. Bear in mind, Victoire, it is you who have raised the stakes of this game.”

“Do you intend to kill my cousin, then?” Victoire’s eyes narrowed. “I would not be so hasty, _Victoria_. There will be consequences.”

Leliana rose slightly from the throne. “Explain yourself,” she demanded.

Victoire glanced toward the hallway, where the scent of flowers still lingered. “You have a wedding to bless today, have you not?” With a wry smile she looked back toward the throne. “That will be rather difficult without the bride.”

* * *

Dressing for Josephine’s wedding was making Hawke give thanks for the simplicity of her own. Maker, was Orlesian fashion designed merely to be time-consuming? It had taken nearly an hour for her and Yvette to get into their own dresses (with the greater part of that time going to Yvette’s attempts to do something so fancy with Hawke’s hair that she was almost afraid to face herself in the mirror), and now they seemed to be attempting to bury the poor bride in her layers of satin ruffles and lace. Malcolm, freed from his sling for the duration of the dressing process, lay in a basket on the bed, cooing cheerfully in response to the baby-talk Yvette was directing at him while she and Hawke fastened buttons and straightened hems and pinned curls in place.

The first warning that something was wrong was Malcolm’s sudden silence. And then his startled cry. Hawke whirled from the bride to see a man dropping from a hole in the ceiling to land on the bed, jostling the baby in his basket -- and another man, and a third, following him through that hole, knives glinting in their hands. She shrieked, “Malcolm!” and left Josephine’s train half-buttoned to grab her staff, shooting flames at one man and ice at the next, leaping to stand over her son while yet more attackers poured in from the door.

* * *

The Divine shot to her feet and turned to the elf at her side. With a nod, he disappeared into the shadows.

Thayer Trevelyan, watching the audience with the Grand Cleric from the side of the room, felt the world go still when Victoire threatened the bride. Then Leliana was speaking again, demanding an explanation, but Thayer had heard enough. Josephine was Leliana’s dear friend; of course the Grand Cleric would see the same opportunity there that Leliana had seen in taking Victoire’s cousin hostage. Thayer was out the door, running towards the guest quarters, while behind him the audience chamber rang with voices raised in anger and the Divine ordered the Grand Cleric thrown in a cell.

Thayer burst into Josephine’s quarters just in time to intercept a man flung backwards towards the door by a burst of Hawke’s magic. Thayer finished him off with one quick stab, then threw himself at another assassin aiming a slash at Hawke from behind, while she summoned lightning to stun the man attacking her head-on. With the two of them now working together, the last of the assassins were quickly finished off.

Hawke reached for Malcolm, over whose basket she had been standing throughout the fight, but as Thayer looked around, his fears were confirmed. “Josephine,” he gasped, pressing a hand against a cut he’d taken to his arm. “Where is she?”

Hawke looked around, gaping in shock. “Oh, no. Maker, no,” she groaned, hefting Malcolm to her shoulder as she paced from one side of the room to the other. “When they attacked, I thought -- Malcolm -- I turned to protect him but…”

“Lord...Lord Trevelyan?” piped a small voice. They turned to see a woman’s figure stirring from where she had fallen, to the side of the bed. Thayer’s heart leaped --

“Yvette,” Hawke gasped, dropping to her knees beside the woman. “You’re hurt.”

“Josie,” the younger Montilyet sister moaned. “Took her...carried her away. I tried to follow...something hit me.”

“I’m so sorry,” Hawke whispered, searching beneath Yvette’s layers of fabric for an injury to heal. “I wasn’t watching. I should have…”

“Yvette, did you see which way they went?” Thayer pleaded, searching the corners of the room for any sign of his bride.

Yvette nodded toward the ceiling. “One of them handed her up into that hole. Another one was waiting there to catch her. _Oh!_ Lady Hawke, what did you do? That feels...better.”

“You had some bruises, but no serious wounds I can see,” Hawke said. Thayer was already climbing onto the bed, pulling himself up into the hole in the ceiling. Hawke told Yvette, “Go find Fenris, will you? And the Divine. And Varric. Tell them what happened. Thayer,” she called up into the hole, “I’m coming with you.”

He frowned down at her from the ceiling. “Are you sure? What about the baby?”

“It’s a very secure sling,” she assured him, fastening Malcolm into it and handing her staff up to the Inquisitor. “It’s my fault; I let Josephine get kidnapped and I’m going to help you get her back.”

Thayer shook his head slowly. “It isn’t. Stop saying that. You had the three of you _and_ your child to defend, all by yourself, and the only bodies I see dead on the floor are _none of those_. They meant to take Josephine alive, as a hostage, and you couldn’t have known that. So stop taking the blame.” He reached a hand down to help her up into the hole. “But I’ll gladly have your help in taking my lady back from them.”

* * *

Yvette found Fenris first for the simple reason that Fenris was already looking for Hawke. Not that he had any idea what had happened before Yvette came running up to him. There was some pretext or other -- he wanted Hawke’s help with the suit he was supposed to wear for the wedding, or he was going to take Malcolm off her hands so she could finish getting ready -- but in truth he just wanted to see her. Since Malcolm’s birth, he had scarcely been separated from her, and he was sure it shouldn’t be taking this long for the women to get dressed. Perhaps he was just being paranoid, with everything that had happened since they arrived in Orlais…

...But then, the tale Yvette was babbling at him now definitely justified his paranoia.

He was sprinting now towards Josephine’s room, having sent Yvette on her way to tell the others, when a hand reached out of nowhere and caught his wrist. Fenris whirled, lyrium veins flaring as he thrust out a hand to defend himself.

But the supposed attacker laughed and danced back out of reach, realeasing his grip. “Touchy, are we?”

Fenris took him in, at a glance. An elf, slightly shorter than himself, cloaked in black, blond hair tied back with braids, something almost delicate about the tattoo on his left cheek. A familiar face, when Fenris paused to think. He scowled. “You’re that assassin Hawke helped years ago.”

“Ah, I so hoped I’d made an impression,” the assassin acknowledged with a slight bow. “And you’re that elf who wouldn’t let me...get to know her any better afterwards.”

“I still am,” Fenris warned, narrowing his eyes. “What are you doing here? There was an attack.  Are you involved in this?”

“At the Divine’s command,” he answered. “That is to say, I am on _your_ side, my friend. I had hoped to catch the assassins before they attacked again, but all is not lost. Let me guess: You are about to dash off, hoping to follow Hawke’s trail into danger, no?”

“I do that often,” Fenris admitted. “The ambassador was taken hostage; Hawke and the Inquisitor are pursuing the kidnappers. Hawke sent Yvette to tell us to follow. Do you have a better plan?”

“Oh, most certainly. I found something most interesting when I tried to discover where the one who killed the mage two days ago had disappeared to. I think I know where they will be taking their prize. If we go quickly, we can get there first. Then when Hawke and Trevelyan arrive, we have the enemy surrounded. Sound good?” He offered his hand as if to seal a deal.

Fenris considered for a moment, then grasped the assassin’s hand. “I’m with you.”

“Excellent! Oh, and have you a name, my quiet and glowy friend? I’m Zevran, by the way.”

“Fenris,” he said, following Zevran into the passageway, hidden behind a statue of Maferath, from which the assassin had so suddenly appeared to stop his mad rush to follow Hawke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details about the Grand Cathedral inspired by reading "Asunder"... :-)


	11. Wherein a trap is sprung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, Zevran has a plan.

**Hawkquisition Part 3: Patchwork Families  
Chapter 11**

_Wherein a trap is sprung_

The worst thing about Orlesian fashion turned out to be not the time taken to put it on, but the time wasted trying to crawl through secret tunnels in it. The passageway from which the attackers had infiltrated Josephine’s room had not yet shown any signs of opening out into one with a higher ceiling, and Hawke kept catching her impractical little pointy-toed wedding shoes on the long skirts. Finally she stopped, reached for the knife she kept holstered in a pocket sewn into Malcolm’s sling (it really was a very useful accessory for the adventuring new mother, and she recalled Harritt’s look of glee when she had explained what she wanted), and slashed off the skirts just above her knees.

Thayer looked back at the sound of fabric succumbing to such violence and choked out a laugh when he saw what she had done. “Yvette will be so devastated when she sees that.”

“Not if we save her sister,” Hawke said.

Thayer nodded, growing serious. “On with it, then.”

They were nearly to the end of that passageway when Thayer paused to pick up a woman’s shoe lying in the middle of his path. He waved it back at Hawke. “You’re not throwing shoes around now too, are you?”

“Sadly, I still have both of mine. I assume Josephine dropped it?”

“We’re on the right track,” he grinned.

Which was fine, until that path ended, intersecting with a spiral stairway leading up to their left and down to their right.

“At least the ceiling’s higher here,” Hawke groaned, pulling herself and Malcolm out of the crawl space to stand by Thayer on the steps. He looked back and forth between the two wings of the stairway several times before his eyes widened and he clambered down a few steps to the right.

“Look,” he said, bending to retrieve something from the steps.

Hawke followed him and took the scrap of fabric he handed her. “It’s -- I think it’s part of Josie’s dress,” she said, spreading the fabric out to see the familiar lace pattern. She met Thayer’s grin with her own. “She’s left us a trail! This bride of yours is a clever girl, Thayer.”

“I’ll not dispute that,” he smiled with pride and jogged down the steps ahead of her. “You realize it also means that she expected us to follow.”

_Of course she did,_ Hawke thought, grinning at Thayer’s back as she hurried after him. “And the kidnappers are fools if they don’t expect the same,” she reminded him. “So _be careful_ , Thayer!”

* * *

Josephine tugged at another of the ruffles on her dress as her captors urged her along the dank passageway. Crawling through that first tunnel-like space above the ceiling of the guest quarters had done her a favor, she told herself, by working loose so many of the bits of ribbon and lace and flounces that adorned the dress. Even with her teeth useless behind a gag (they’d put that on her when she first tried to scream after they got her through the hole in the ceiling) and her hands tied behind her (that had happened as soon as they got out of the crawl space onto the stairs and she tried to put to use what she could remember of her training as a bard, even if it was more than a decade old and little use to her now), she was still able to find enough bits of fabric that she could work loose, ball up in her palm, and be ready to drop each time their path diverged.

It wasn’t much, but surely the bright fabric would catch the eye of anyone following.

And he would follow. She hadn’t been a diplomat for all these years without learning to predict what people might do, to arrange circumstances to take advantage of people’s reactions. She knew the Inquisitor well enough now to be sure he would be in pursuit the moment he knew she was missing.

_Just hurry, my love,_ Josephine thought, as they passed through an ancient stone doorway and she contrived to drop a ruffle on the very doorstep.

* * *

The passageway Zevran had pulled Fenris into was so narrow they had to turn sideways at some points, shoulders against one wall as they shimmied forward. Zevran put out a hand to stop his companion before they had gone far, and Fenris watched as the assassin somehow bent sideways to reach his boots, extracting a small dagger which he handed to Fenris.

“Just in case,” Zevran explained. “No room to swing that big sword of yours if we run into any trouble on the way.”

Fenris nodded and took the dagger. “In that case I am likely to rely on my markings,” he pointed out, “but thank you. Do you anticipate trouble, then?”

“Anticipating trouble is an occupational hazard,” the assassin chuckled. “Sadly, I think they will not expect us to come this way. All her men are in position for their little coup, except for the ones she sent after the girl.”

“Coup?” Fenris squinted at Zevran, trying to decipher his words. “Whose men?”

“Grand Cleric Victoire, of course,” he said as if it were obvious. “Oh, she went in to her audience with the Divine alone, but I marked her agents getting into position before she arrived.” He frowned over his shoulder at Fenris. “I didn’t mark any of those men moving to capture the ambassador, though. Perhaps I missed some. Probably they were here before I arrived. Either way, the kidnapping is likely a distraction. We all go chasing after the bride, and Victoire’s men move against the Divine and her loyal priests.”

“Then why _are_ you chasing after the bride?” Fenris asked. “Aren’t you here for the Divine?”

“Oh, not to worry, my friend,” Zevran flashed a toothy smile at him. “Granted, it would be truly exciting if I had the chance to take down all Victoire’s men myself, but they were rather spread out and I can only be in so many places at once.”

Fenris arched a dubious eyebrow.

Zevran continued, “So naturally I told Commander Cullen where they were all hiding. The Inquisitor brought enough soldiers -- and more than enough deadly wedding guests -- with him to cover all the fronts of this battle. Meanwhile, you and I -- and Hawke and the Inquisitor, of course -- get to be the dashing rescuers.”

Fenris groaned and rolled his eyes at that. Zevran only laughed.

* * *

Grand Cleric Victoire spat insults and vitriolic Chant quotes behind her at the Divine all the way down to the holding cells. Ignoring her, Leliana stepped out of the audience chamber and nodded to Cullen, who stood watching the cleric’s departure with an expression of clear disgust. “Everyone is in place, Commander?” Leliana asked him.

“Awaiting your command, Most Holy,” he said, with only the faintest smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

“You know _you_ don’t really have to call me that, Cullen,” she answered with a smile of her own and a poke at his ribs.

“Far be it from me to set a poor example for the men,” he objected.

Leliana nodded, staring in the direction her loyal Templars had dragged Victoire. “I expect jailing her is the signal to her forces.”

“Then so it is to ours, also,” Cullen said, turning to wave to the Iron Bull, at one end of the hallway, and Cole, at the other. Both nodded and disappeared around their respective corners, passing the signal on.

Within minutes, every priest in the Grand Cathedral loyal to the new Divine found themselves under attack by men wearing the heraldry of the Grand Cleric of Morelle.

Within seconds after that, the Inquisition soldiers hidden among the priests had thrown off their Chantry robes, freeing their swords to meet the attack.

Grand Cleric Victoire had no doubt expected her coup -- armed assassins against defenseless priests -- to go quickly. It was over even quicker than she could have ever anticipated. The halls of the Grand Cathedral ran red with blood, and not a single priest fell that day.


	12. Wherein another trap is sprung and the Inquisitor collects his bride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josephine has been kidnapped; with the Inquisitor and Hawke in pursuit, Zevran and Fenris try to set a trap for the kidnappers.

 

**Hawkquisition Part 3: Patchwork Families  
Chapter 12**

_Wherein another trap is sprung and the Inquisitor collects his bride_

Zevran’s route through the walls of the Grand Cathedral carried the two elves gradually downward. Fenris noted the air growing cooler and danker, and soon the wooden paneling changed to walls of stone. Above, a hint of light had filtered into the passageways from the Cathedral’s rooms and hallways that flanked them, but down here it was completely dark. Zevran had suggested at one point that Fenris’ lyrium tattoos could be used to light their way, but Fenris had narrowed his eyes dangerously until Zevran sighed and gave up on the notion. So they slipped deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Cathedral, feeling their way along in the dark.

Then Zevran stopped suddenly, putting up a hand for silence. Fenris froze and waited; a faint line of light formed slowly beside the assassin, from the ground nearly to the ceiling of the passageway, then a horizontal line joined it: a door, he realized, opening ever so slightly. Zevran put an eye to the crack of the door, watching silently for several moments, then eased it open far enough that he could slip through, and vanished into the light.

Fenris crept closer to the door, dagger at the ready, debating how long he should wait before assuming something had gone wrong. Just when he was about to go for his sword and burst in after the assassin, Zevran stuck his head in at the door and winked, actually winked, at him. “All clear,” he whispered. “Just as I thought, we got here before them.”

“Assuming this is indeed their destination,” Fenris whispered back. He followed Zevran out into a small chamber. Parts of it seemed hewn from the very stone; elsewhere it was lined with bricks. The light came from candelabra in the corners -- eight of them; it was a roughly octagonal space -- and from a chandelier high overhead. He glanced up to see a vaulted ceiling and the faint remnants of a painted scene that had once adorned it.

“Not to worry, my friend. They will be here. You see that archway to our right? I followed it a little way. I’m almost certain it leads towards the guest quarters, so that is the way they will come.”

“You say _almost_ certain,” Fenris noted. “And if they do not?”

“Then we can amuse ourselves by testing the acoustics of this interesting little room? Look how high that ceiling is. Imagine the echoes. I know songs that --”

“Imagine my fist in your throat when you sing them,” Fenris growled, glowing ever so slightly. Zevran only grinned.

Fenris tucked the assassin’s dagger away in his belt, reaching for his greatsword instead, and stalked over to the archway Zevran had indicated. “What now?” he asked. “If you are sure they’re coming this way, do we intercept them?”

“No, no,” Zevran said. “We wait for the other half of our little trap to catch up with them. Not that they know they are our other half yet. Well, _Hawke_ might consider _you_ her other half, but she doesn’t know we’re here, does she?”

“She probably will, as will our targets, if you keep talking. So we wait here, I take it?”

“For opportunity,” Zevran flashed a toothy grin and disappeared behind a faded tapestry hanging from the wall opposite the archway. Fenris stared a moment more into the darkness beyond the archway before joining him behind the tapestry.

* * *

 

Josephine’s eyes widened as she stepped out of the dark passageway into a room lit by candlelight. Craning her neck to look up at the vaulted ceiling, she almost tripped when one of her captors tugged at her elbow.

“Easy, madame,” he said in an Orlesian accent muffled slightly by the scarves they all wore over the greater part of their faces -- for anonymity, she assumed. “You’re just going to rest here till we can smuggle you out to the lady. ‘Tisn’t safe in the Cathedral at the moment,” he chuckled.

A second man brought forward a wooden chair that had seen better days. “I still say it would’ve been simpler just to kill her.” Josephine bit down on the scarf gagging her in alarm. The man continued, “A quick assassination. Maybe then we’d have been out before half our team was dead.”

“We should’ve been told to expect a mage defending her,” a third man huffed. “I’m demanding hazard pay after this.”

“Don’t see what the client wants with her anyway,” said the second man.

“What’s it to us?” the first man chided, steering Josephine into the chair and producing more scarves with which to tie her there. “Job’s a job. Whatever business she has with this one, our job’s to deliver her in one piece. So we rest here a bit till the fighting’s over upstairs, then we hand her off and get paid.”

“Double, I say, for the trouble this job’s been.”

Josephine tried grunting and moaning into the gag to get them to take it off, but they failed to take the hint. There were odds and ends of furniture scattered around the room, old chairs and long benches and a number of bedrolls, even a small brazier of sorts set up near a stack of crates. Some of the men gathered around the brazier now, pulling food out of the crates to begin preparing a meal. One of them stood guard over the exit. She guessed that they’d made a sort of headquarters of this ancient chamber, holing up here between assassinations and kidnappings. Nearly a dozen of the attackers had returned here with her; she assumed -- hoped -- that Hawke had accounted for the others, rather than they for her. And Yvette! Josephine paled to think of her sister, defenseless in the midst of the fight. She tried not to keep glancing toward the archway through which they had come, lest she draw her captors’ attention to it and the help that she had to believe was coming.

* * *

 

The passageway widened out as it approached an archway, beyond which candlelight flickered, outlining the figure of a man pacing there, his back to the light. Thayer and Hawke advanced slowly, keeping to the shadows. There was no real cover, nor did they know any other way to access the room. Thayer stopped at what he judged to be distance enough that a whisper would not carry, and whispered to Hawke, “Any idea how many of them might be in there?”

She shook her head. “We killed, what, six or seven? From what Yvette said, there were at least two more getting Josephine out of the room, but there could have been more waiting in the tunnels.”

“I don’t like going in there without knowing what we’re facing. Maybe you can distract the guard while I sneak past to the door and --”

A sudden cry pierced the stillness. Thayer glanced towards the door, fearing something had happened to Josephine, but a second tiny cry brought his attention back to Hawke.

And Malcolm, who had chosen this moment to wake up and realize he was hungry.

“Hey!” the guard at the door shouted in their direction. “Is someone there?”

Thayer sighed. “Not the distraction I had in mind, Hawke!”

“Sorry!” she said, raising her staff and casting a shield of magical energy over the child, while Thayer drew his daggers and advanced, trying to slip behind the guard while his attention was on Hawke. But two more armed men were rushing out the door to back the guard up. Hawke’s first bolt of fire caught one of the new arrivals, so that the guard who had first spotted them turned back toward the door -- just in time for Thayer to plunge his knife into the man’s back. And then training took over. However many more enemies were inside, there was no going back now and no more time to plan.

* * *

 

The kidnappers still inside the octagonal room sprang to their feet when the guard at the door shouted. Two of them immediately ran to his aid, but the rest moved to stand between their captive and the door, arranging themselves in a defensive line.

Behind their tapestry, watching through patches that time had worn thin, Zevran nudged Fenris. “That, my deadly friend, is our cue.”

“Then let us take the stage,” he answered, smiling back at the assassin for once.

Josephine’s eyes widened and the gag muffled her squeak of surprise when the two elves leapt past her chair, falling upon the kidnappers with daggers and sword and flare of lyrium. The first three went down quickly before the rest turned to face the new threat, and then for a moment the elves were driven back, while Josephine attempted to scoot her chair back out of the fighting.

Then ice encased the man sneaking up on Fenris, whose sword swung round to shatter the frozen attacker, and magical fire engulfed the man about to bring his sword down on Zevran, who twisted away from the suddenly fumbled sword to drive his daggers into the next enemy. Thayer was right behind Hawke, flinging a knife to pin the man who was running toward Josephine, perhaps thinking to escape with their hostage while the others went down fighting. As that man stumbled, blood trickling from his mouth gaping in shock, the next swing of Fenris’ sword finished him off.

And that was the last of them. The chamber was still -- except for Josephine’s muffled “mmrmphs!” behind the gag, and the whimpering cries of Malcolm, who was still bemoaning the fact that he had awakened to a battle instead of a meal. At that, Fenris shook his head as he approached her. “Hawke. Continuing with your plan to acclimate the child to combat, I see.”

“Never too early to start,” she said, attempting a shaky smile as she brushed her fingertips across the baby’s cheek. “Especially when attackers start dropping out of the ceiling when you’re trying to get dressed.”

Her smile wasn’t the only thing shaky, Fenris noted, and reached for her, pulling wife and child both into his embrace. “That was indeed inconsiderate of them. Perhaps your dressing room could use a bodyguard.”

Zevran perked up. “I volun--”

“You do not,” Fenris interrupted him. “I reserve that role for myself.”

Thayer, having relieved Josephine of the gag and now working on the scarves binding her to the chair, scoffed. “You know, she had three or four of the attackers down before I got there.”

“I thought they were after Malcolm,” Hawke sighed, pulling away from Fenris reluctantly when the baby continued to cry. “Sorry, sweetie,” she addressed the child, “dinner will have to wait until I can get out of this dress. It does not seem to have been designed with nursing mothers in mind.”

Fenris arched an eyebrow as he looked her over: her hair still half pinned up in the fashion Yvette had settled on, half falling down from its pins; her feet bare where she had finally abandoned the pointy shoes in one of the tunnels; her skirts ending in a jagged edge above her knees and streaked with the dust of the passages they had crawled through. “It does not seem to have been designed for pursuing assassins, either.”

She looked down at herself and gave a rueful laugh, attempting in vain to smooth the tattered skirts. “I look ridiculous, don’t I?”

He took her hands and planted a kiss on her dusty cheek. “Alive, unhurt, and victorious, with our child in your arms? You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

Meanwhile, Thayer had freed his bride from her chair and helped her to her feet. “Josephine. Are you all right, love?”

“I...I will be,” she promised, falling into his embrace. “It is still our wedding day, after all. Even if this is not the sort of excitement I was expecting on this day!”

He laughed, holding her tight. “I’m so sorry you were caught up in this. We knew the Grand Cleric was planning something -- Zevran spotted the people she had in place to attack, so we were ready for them -- but we had no idea she’d go after you, too.”

“Then it’s fortunate Hawke was there. Though I swear, Lisbet, when I asked you to be a bridesmaid I meant it in friendship, rather than for protection.”

Hawke smiled. “Sometimes there’s little difference between the two.”

Josephine nodded. “And I thank you all for rescuing me. This sort of thing is, well, beyond my skills at negotiation, I suppose.”

Thayer chuckled. “I doubt that. Only because they weren’t letting you talk, dear.”

* * *

They made their way back through the hidden passages slowly. “What is this place, anyway?” Josephine asked. “I had no idea such a thing existed beneath the Grand Cathedral.”

“They were using that chamber as a sort of headquarters,” Zevran said. “I found it yesterday and heard some of them talking about Victoire’s plans for a coup. Pity they didn’t tip me off about the kidnapping, but at least it gave me an idea where they had taken you.”

“The paintings on that ceiling,” Thayer mused. “They reminded me somewhat of paintings we’ve seen in elven ruins. Or the things Solas used to paint in Skyhold’s rotunda, come to think of it.”

“Do you think this is some sort of elven structure, then?” Josephine looked around with interest.

“If so, it must be incredibly old. Unless the Dalish have been hiding under the Divine’s very nose sometime in ages past.”

Zevran led them out a different way than any of them had come to the painted chamber, avoiding the narrow crawl spaces and finally emerging from a tower onto a rooftop walkway. “You can find your way from here, I believe,” the assassin said. “I am off to report to Leliana.”

“And I’m off to feed this poor child,” Hawke said, waving at the others and leading Fenris to the nearest stairway down into the guest quarters.

Zevran waved back and then turned to Josephine, bowing over her hand to kiss it. “Lady Montilyet, you do make a lovely bride. I will see you at the wedding, no?”

“Oh! The wedding!” Thayer said, throwing up a hand in mock surprise as the assassin strolled away. “I think we might actually be late for that.”

Josephine pointed down into the courtyard of the Cathedral, where their walkway overlooked it. “Perhaps it would be best to start a bit late anyway. It appears the battle is over, but there is work to do yet before celebrations.” They looked to see rows of bodies lined up in the courtyard, wearing the heraldry of Morelle, and Inquisition soldiers dragging still more of them out. A few bodies in Inquisition armor were visible among them. Thayer’s face fell at that.

“So it seems,” he said. “I must see to the fallen. And then I suppose the sanctuary is in no state for ceremony. My dear, will you be terribly disappointed if we must put off the wedding till tomorrow?”

Josephine shook her head. “I’m coming with you. Someone has to start writing letters of condolences, and you don’t know the first thing about funeral arrangements. We’ll get through this, my love, and when the work is done, Leliana can marry us out in the courtyard if the Cathedral is not fit for it. I don’t care if it takes until tomorrow or next week or even if we say our vows tonight under the stars.” She took his hand and looked up into his eyes. “I am with you. Today, and always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here ends Part 3 of Hawkquisition! (Unless maybe I add a bit of an epilogue to this...but I'm heading out now to catch a plane and won't have a computer with me so if there is an epilogue, it won't be till near the end of June. Sorry! Hopefully this ends satisfyingly enough without it?)


End file.
